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THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


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WITH  NUMEROUS  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


NEW  YORK: 

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' 


X 


' 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN 


CHAPTER  I. 

A MEETING  IN  THE  CITY. 

In  the  forenoon  of  the  25th  of  December, 
1816,  I was  sitting  in  one  of  those  high,  nar- 
row boxes  partitioned  off  the  public  room  of 
the  old  Greek  Coffee-house,  which  then  stood 
in  Finsbury  Pavement,  reading  the  morning  pa- 
per, and  feeling  that  I was  a stranger  in  Lon- 
don, having  arrived  the  day  before  by  the  Amer- 
ican ship  “ Franklin,”  from  Baltimore.  The 
coffee-house  was  empty,  the  streets  were  dreary, 
with  a dull,  heavy  fog  and  shut-up  shops ; every 
body  was  at  church  or  at  home  getting  ready  for 
their  Christmas  dinner ; but  while  I sat  there, 
seeing  that  there  was  no  news,  and  wondering 
how  I should  spend  the  day,  two  men  in  earnest 
conversation  entered,  and  took  possession  of  the 
box  next  to  mine.  I knew  they  did  not  see  me, 
and  had  come  there  for  private  talk,  but  I saw 
them.  One  was  a tall,  gray-haired  man,  with 
a large  frame,  a slight  stoop,  a sober,  intelli- 
gent look,  and  features  of  the  Scottish  type,  but 
somewhat  softened,  like  the  faces  one  meets  with 
in  the  north  of  Ireland.  The  other  was  at  least 
twenty  years  younger,  a smaller  man,  thin,  dark, 
and  disagreeable  looking;  one  could  not  say 
why,  for  he  had  good  black  eyes  and  hair,  feat- 
ures of  the  Jewish  mould,  and  an  appearance 
of  wiry  strength,  but  somehow  there  was  an  ex- 
pression in  his  face  of  being  on  the  look-out  to 
do  somebody  mischief,  and  having  accounts  to 
settle  with  all  mankind.  He  was  listening  in  a 
friendly  manner,  however,  to  the  elder — I was 
going  tci  say  gentleman,  but  that  term  did  not 
exactly  apply  to  either  of  the  pair ; though  re- 
spectably dressed,  they  were  both  unmistakably 
clerks,  fresh  from  mercantile  offices,  and  in  their 
holiday  trim. 

“It  is  just  sixteen  years  ago,”  said  the  sen- 
ior, when  coffee  had  been  ordered  and  the  wait- 
er dismissed;  “it  happened  the  very  year  that 
Ireland  lost  her  Parliament,  the  last  of  the  cen- 
tury, and  much  about  this  season.  I remember 
it  well;  I was  in  La  Touche’s  employment — 
the  only  clerk  he  ever  kept,  so  I ought  to  know 
a good  deal  about  the  family.” 

“No  doubt  you  do,”  said  his  companion. 
“Did  they  live  in  Ireland?” 

“In  Armagh,  my  native  place,”  said  the  eld- 
er man — he  spoke  with  a semi-Scottish  accent 
wonderfully  suited  to  his  look — “ a town  in  the 
north,  not  large  but  very  ancient,  and  of  greater 
note  in  old  times  than  it  is  now.  They  say 


Saint  Patrick  built  his  first  Christian  church 
there  on  the  site  of  the  present  cathedral.  They 
show  the  hermitage  in  which  he  lived  and  died, 
a low  hut  in  the  church-yard  overgrown  with 
ivy,  and  the  old  people  have  fine  tales  about  a 
college  which  stood  hard  by,  and  students  flock- 
ing to  it  from  France  and  Spain,  when  learning 
was  every  where  scarce  but  in  Ireland.  I sup- 
pose they  were  partly  true,  like  most  fine  stories. 
There  was  nothing  of  the  kind  in  my  time,  nor 
for  hundreds  of  years  before  it ; but  Armagh 
was  a bishop’s  see,  the  chief  town  of  one  of  the 
Ulster  counties,  foremost  in  the  linen  trade,  and 
on  the  coach  road  between  Dublin  and  Belfast. 
It  had  a good  market  for  corn  and  flax,  linen 
cloth  and  yarn.  The  country  round  was  all 
gentlemen’s  seats  and  comfortable  farms.  There 
were  hand-looms  and  spinning-wheels  going  in 
every  house ; there  were  bleach  greens  beside 
every  stream,  with  webs  spread  out  and  whiten- 
ing in  the  summer  sun,  and  there  was  a deal  of 
safe,  steady  business  done  in  the  town.  Small 
and  old  as  it  was,  some  people  made  their  for- 
tunes there.  We  did  not  expect  such  great 
gatherings  as  they  do  in  England,  but  we  had 
our  rich  men,  and  La  Touche  was  counted  one 
of  them.  I have  heard  my  father  say  that  his 
father  came  from  Dublin,  and  set  up  the  first 
bank  that  ever  was  known  in  Armagh,  the  year 
the  new  style  came  in.” 

“Was  the  family  French?”  said  his  listener. 
What  a hard  metallic  tone  his  voice  had  ; how 
low,  and  yet  how  clear  it  was ! 

“I  suppose  it  must  have  been,  from  the  name, 
though  it  is  a known  one  in  Dublin.  I am  not 
sure  that  the  race  has  not  relations  there  to  this 
day,  merchants  and  bankers  like  themselves,  but 
on  a far  higher  scale,  and  never  familiar  with 
them  ; no  doubt  the  relationship  was  distant. 
However  that  might  be,  the  Dublin  house  and 
the  Armagh  one  did  business  together.  Mr. 
La  Touche,  my  employer,  was  a linen  merchant 
and  a banker,  as  his  father  had  been  before 
him.  The  old  man  had  but  two  sons,  you  see ; 
one  of  them  got  the  business,  the  other  went  to 
France  to  be  educated  for  a priest : it  was  the 
only  way  of  making  priests  at  that  time,  and 
the  La  Touches  were  Roman  Catholics.  It 
was  thought  he  should  have  got  the  parish,  but 
whether  there  was  any  difference  between  him 
and  his  elder  brother,  as  some  people  said,  about 
Miss  O’Neil — the  Star  of  the  North  they  called 
her — whom  the  banker  afterward  married,  or 
whether  he  took  another  notion,  nobody  could 


4 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


# 


tell ; but  the  boy  went  out  to  Lower  Canada  as  I 
soon  as  his  education  was  finished,  and  got  an  J 
out-of-the-world  parish  among  the  French  set- 
tlers there.  So  my  master  had  the  business  all 
to  himself ; it  was  a good  and  a prosperous  one 
when  I came  into  his  service  five-and-thirty 
years  ago. 

“A  weaver  with  a loom  of  his  own  was  well 
i to  do,  and  a hand  for  fine  spinning  was  a mar- 
riage portion  not  to  be  overlooked  by  small  farm- 
ers and  their  sons.  Sound  profits  were  to  be 
made  by  banking  in  those  days ; private  banks 
were  the  only  things  to  be  found  in  country 
towns.  La  Touche  was  a shrewd  man  of  busi- 
ness, but  an  honest  one.  I never  knew  a man 
who  held  his  honor  higher,  or  showed  more  of 
the  gentleman  in  all  his  dealings.  His  father 
had  borne  the  same  character  before  him ; so  had 
his  grandfather  and  great-grandfather  among 
the  Dublin  people.  They  were  all  in  the  bank- 
ing line,  you  see,  and  it  was  natural  that  the 
whole  country  should  put  confidence  in  him. 
His  business  was  nothing  to  what  the  Dublin 
house  did — nothing  to  what  Mr.  Forbes  carries 
on  here ; but  of  its  sort  and  size  there  was  not 
a more  respectable  or  flourishing  concern  in  all 
Ireland  than  La  Touche’s  Armagh  Bank. 

“All  the  saving  fanners  deposited  their  gath- 
erings there,  because  the  rate  of  interest  was 
good,  and  every  body  believed  the  Armagh 
Bank  as  safe  as  the  Armagh  Cathedral. 

“ I have  said  that,  besides  being  a banker,  La 
Touche  was  a linen  merchant.  That  was  the 
most  genteel  business  in  our  country  — quite 
above  the  reach  of  common  people,  on  account 
of  the  skill  and  experience,  not  to  speak  of  the 
capital,  required  to  carry  it  on  with  any  chance 
of  success  ; but  he  had  served  an  apprenticeship 
to  it  under  his  own  father,  and  the  bank  enabled 
him  to  buy  up  half  the  webs  brought  to  our 
markets  sometimes,  and  do  large  transactions 
with  the  exporting  men  in  Belfast. 

“Every  body  thought  La  Touche  wealthy, 
and  he  should  have  been  so  if  his  hands  could 
only  have  kept  what  they  gathered ; but  he  was 
not  the  man  to  do  that.  A gentleman  every 
inch  of  him,  as  they  say  in  Ireland,  with  an 
open  hand  and  open  heart,  ready  to  help,  ready 
to  spend,  easy  in  his  goings,  and  rather  given  to 
sport,  keeping  a good  table  and  a liberal  house 
— maybe  a wasteful  one- — never  clear  of  com- 
. pany,  tea  and  dancing,  cards  and  supper,  at  least 
half  the  evenings  in  the  week,  with  dozens  of 
old  followers  coming  at  all  hours  to  tell  their 
distresses  and  get  relieved. 

“ When  I became  his  clerk,  Mr.  La  Touche 
had  been  nearly  three  years  married  to  the  Star 
of  the  North  — they  called  Miss  O’Neil  that  for 
her  beauty.  She  was  the  handsomest  woman 
in  that  side  of  Ulster,  and  came  of  a high  fam- 
ily. They  traced  their  descent  from  the  Earls 
of  Tyrone.  The  castle  and  estate  of  Finmore 
had  belonged  to  them,  but  tbe  castle  had  been 
in  ruins  for  nearly  a hundred  years  ; the  estate 
was  parted  among  strangers,  and  they  had  noth- 
ing but  an  old-fashioned  thatched-roofed  house, 


standing  out  among  the  meadows  at  the  end  of 
Church  Lane,  and  a small  income  which  was  to 
die  with  the  mother.  She  was  a widow,  with 
one  son  and  a daughter ; but  till  her  dying  dav 
she  never  allowed  herself  to  be  called  any  thing 
but  madame,  nor  suffered  any7  one  to  sit  down 
in  her' presence  till  they  were  bidden.  When 
her  son  had  to  do  something  for  his  living,  she ' 
shipped  him  off  to  America,  for  fear  it  should 
be  known  that  one  of  the  O’Neils  had  come  so 
low  as  to  follow  trade  or  business. 

“La  Touche  had  to  show  his  pedigree,  and 
prove  himself  descended  from  somebody  as  good 
as  the  Tyrones,  before  he  got  leave  to  marry 
her  daughter.  I suppose  lie  did  it  to  the  old 
lady’s  satisfaction,  for  they  were  married.  Such 
a wedding  never  was  seen  in  Armagh.  The 
poor  people  lived  for  a w'eek  on  the  leavings  of 
the  dinner;  they  got  it  air  among  them;  and 
Mrs.  La  Touche  was  a fine  woman,  a pleasure 
to  look  at,  and  a pleasure  to  speak  to ; but,  to  my 
knowledge,  she  never  did  any7  thing  except  read 
novels  and  see  company.  House,  children,  and 
servants,  all  were  left  to  the  care  of  Miss  Livy7. 
Miss  Olivia  was  her  state  name,  but  she  never 
got  it — an  aunt  of  La  Touche’s,  who  had  always 
lived  in  the  house,  and  had  never  been  married 
— whether  on  account  of  a very  particular  cast 
in  both  her  eyes,  or  a temper  of  her  own,  the 
neighbors  could  not  be  certain.  However,  she 
took  the  whole  charge,  was  first  up  in  the  morn- 
ing and  last  in  bed  at  night,  blew  them  all  sky- 
high  when  things  went  too  far  out  of  regulation  ; 
and  how  they  would  have  gone  on  without  her 
nobody  could  tell. 

“ Beyond  a doubt,  Miss  Livy  had  a temper, 
but  it  did  not  come  on  often  ; and  when  matters 
were  not  quite  against  her  mind,  she  was  a 
good-humored,  kindly  soul,  charitable  to  the 
poor,  hospitable  to  all  comers,  given  to  none  of 
women’s  vanities,  always  going  about  in  the 
same  old  goAvn  and  cap  Saturday  and  Sunday 
— maybe  she  thought  there  was  no  use  in  her 
dressing  — and  troublesome  about  nothing  but 
the  honor  and  glory  of  her  family. 

“ Miss  Livy  had  a complete  account  of  their 
lineage,  cut  out  of  an  old  book  and  kept  in  her 
best  pocket — I think  it  began  with  the  King  of 
France — and  she  always  insisted  that  they7  had 
better  blood  than  the  O’Neils.  Yet  it  was  won- 
derful that  she  and  the  young  madame,  as  we 
call  Mrs.  La  Touche,  never  had  an  unfriendly 
word.  The  handsome,  easy7  young  lady  gave 
‘her  all  her  own  way  with  the  house,  the  chil- 
dren, and  the  servants ; it  was  Miss  Livy’s 
pride  to  see  her  dressed  in  the  newest  fashions 
from  Belfast,  going  to  parties  and  having  com- 
pany at  home,  while  she  waited  on  her  in  a 
manner  and  managed  every  thing  ; and  the  mas- 
ter— Mr.  La  Touche,  I mean- — knew  his  aunt’s 
value,  and  left  all  to  her  management  except 
just  his  business.  The  neighbors  said  he  never 
expected  tbe  Star  of  the  North  to  do  anyr  thing 
but  shine,  and  was  as  fond  and  proud  of  her  to 
the  last  as  he  was  the  day  they  were  married. 

“ He  was  a fine  man  himself,  beth  in  person 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


and  manner,  and  they  kept  a gay,  pleasant 
house.  It  was  called  ‘The  Bank;’  his  father 
had  built  it  twice  the  size  of  any  in  the  town  ; 
one  side  was  the  bank  office,  with  a linen  ware- 
house behind ; the  other  was  the  dwelling- 
house,  large  and  commodious  for  people  in  Ar- 
magh ; and  there  was  a garden  in  the  rear  long 
enough  for  a London  street,  with  cherry-trees, 
and  roses  both  red  and  white. 

. “ I lived  hard  by,  in  Church  Lane,  with  my  fa- 

ther and  mother,  being  their  only  son  ; but  the 
Bank  people  were  kind  to  me  when  the  business 
of  the  day  was  done,  and  the  Bank  and  ware- 
house closed.  You  see  I was  clerk  in  them 
both.  They  asked  me  to  stay  among  the  best  of 
their  company,  which  was  pleasant  for  a young 
man,  and  made  my  poor  mother  proud.  All 
their  friends  knew  me  ; ail  their  children  were 
fond  of  me.  I was  there  while  they  were  com- 
ing and  growing  up,  seven  strong  — a chain  of 
girls  with  a boy  at  each  end  of  it,  as  Miss  Livy 
used  to  say.  The  top  link  was  poor  Raymond, 
the  boy  that  disappeared  so  unaccountably,  and 
mined  his  father ; he  was  learning  to  walk  when 
I first  came  to  the  Bank.  Then  there  were  five 
girls,  every  one  handsome  like  their  mother.  I 
need  not  go  over  their  names ; they  are  all  on 
the  family  tombstone  except  Ilhoda,  the  youn- 
gest— next  to  Lucien,  the  last  link  of  the  chain 
— who  is  coming  to  your  office,  and  she  lives  on 
with  Miss  Livy. 

“It  is  strange  to  remember  all  their  young 
faces  and  young  ways,  that  kept  the  house  so 
lively,  and  sometimes  bothered  it,  and  think  that 
they  are  all  gone  but  two.  Take  them  one  and 
all,  there  was  not  a finer  family  in  the  country. 
The  girls  took  after  their  mother:  they  all  had 
her  fair  complexion  and  blue  eyes,  and,  they 
say,  her  constitution,  for  the  four  eldest  died  of 
the  ‘decay,’  as  we  say  in  Ireland,  and  it  was 
known  to  run  in  the  O’Neil  family.  The  two 
boys  were  fairly  divided  between  their  parents. 
Lucien,  when  I saw  him  last,  was  the  image  of 
his  father,  and  that  was  in  his  seventh  year : he 
had  the  same  brown  complexion,  hair  and  eyes 
nearly  black,  and  face  inclining  to  be  round  and 
rosy.  But  Raymond  was  his  mother’s  son,  with 
her  longer  face,  finely  - moulded  features,  blue 
eyes,  jet-black  hair,  and  complexion  that  seemed 
too  fine  for  a boy.  To  look  at  him  you  would 
have  thought  he  should  have  been  a girl.  There 
was  a painter  from  Belfast  who  took  his  likeness 
for  a picture  of  Kathleen,  the  lady  who  tempted 
St.  Kekevin ; but  there  was  a firm  look  in  Ray- 
mond’s face  when  any  thing  called  up  his  cour- 
age, and  he  had  as  brave  a heart  and  as  high  a 
spirit  as  any  man  in  Ireland.  Young  as  he  was 
then,  I never  knew  a better  or  a wiser  boy ; there 
was  no  mischief,  no  troublesomeness  in  him. 
At  school  he  carried  off  all  the  prizes ; at  home 
he  was  helping  in  his  father’s  business  when 
other  boys  think  only  of  tops  and  balls.  If  there 
were  harmless  fun  going  on,  Raymond  was  sure 
to  be  ringleader ; if  there  were  troubles  or  dis- 
putes, Raymond  was  smoothing  matters  and 
making  peace.  When  Miss  Livy  was  in  the 


height  of  her  tempers  — when  there  was  too 
much  to  do  in  the  warehouse  or  the  Bank — when 
any  of  the  children  had  got  into  a scrape — when 
any  of  the  servants  got  into  disgrace,  as  will 
happen  in  every  family — when  any  of  the  poor 
neighbors  were  in  hardships  or  troubles  of  any 
sort,  Raymond  was  always  ready  with  a kind 
word  and  a helping  hand.  It  was  remarkable 
to  hear  the  old  women  blessing  him  as  he  walked 
the  streets,  and  to  see  how  rich  and  poor  smiled 
on  the  boy  as  he  passed. 

“ His  father  and  mother  would  not  have  part- 
ed with  one  of  the  seven  for  all  the  wealth  in 
Europe ; but  Raymond  was  their  heart’s  darling, 
and  no  wonder,  for  he  promised  to  be  the  staff 
of  their  age. 

“Before  he  was  fourteen  his  father  could 
l trust  him  with  any  secret  of  the  concern — and 
what  concern  has  not  the  like? — send  him  on 
any  private  business  to  Belfast,  let  him  look  over 
the  books,  and  answer  letters  in  his  name. 

‘ ‘ Raymond  was  so  clever,  so  sensible,  so  pru- 
dent, one  forgot  that  he  was  but  a boy.  His 
very  growth  was  beyond  the  common,  for  at 
sixteen  he  looked  like  a tall,  handsome  young 
man  of  two-and-twenty ; and  I am  sure  the  la- 
dies were  taking  notice  of  him,  for  he  handed 
them  about  and  paid  them  compliments  at 
dances  and  parties  like  the  first  gentleman  in 
the  land. 

“ ‘ Haven’t  I cause  to  be  thankful,  Wilson  ?’ 
the  master  would  say  to  me  ; ‘ where  is  the  man 
that  has  got  such  an  eldfer  son.  He  will  carry 
on  the  Bank,  and  keep  up  the  credit  of  the  fam- 
ily ; and  if  it’s  the  Lord’s  will  to  call  me  before 
they  are  all  settled,  Raymond  will  be  a head  to 
the  house,  and  a comfort  to  his  mother.’  ” 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  MYSTERIOUS  NARRATIVE  CONTINUED. 

Reasons  of  my  own  so  interested  me  in  the 
narration  to  which  I was  accidentally  a listener 
that  I did  not  stir  nor  move.  The  narrator, 
after  a pause,  during  which  he  sipped  his  coffee, 
continued : 

“Things  had  been  going  on  with  great  pros- 
perity in  the  eyes  of  all  the  neighbors,  high  and 
low,  for  about  seventeen  years,  counting  from 
my  coming  to  the  Bank.  The  La  Touches  were 
reckoned  among  the  county  gentry,  and  thought 
wise  people  as  well  as  good.  They  had  kept 
clear  of  all  the  troubles  in  ’98  ; the  government 
never  suspected  the  Armagh  banker  of  disloyal- 
ty ; the  United  Men  knew  he  was  above  inform- 
ing, and  thought  he  wished  well  to  their  cause. 
They  had  kept  clear  of  party  spirit,  too,  high  as 
it  runs  in  Ireland.  The  La  Touches  had  no 
bigotry,  no  uncharitableness.  I have  seen  the 
Catholic  dean,  the  Protestant  rector,  and  the 
Presbyterian  minister  all  sitting  together  at  their 
table ; and  whether  it  was  a church,  a chapel, 
or  a meeting-house  that  wanted  subscriptions, 
Mr.  La  Touche  came  out  just  as  handsomely. 
You  may  guess  he  and  his  family  were  well 


G 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


liked,  and  well  wished  too ; but,  as  1 said  be- 
fore, he  was  both  bare  and  busy. 

‘‘Nothing  overreaching  or  selfish  would  the 
man  do  under  any  circumstances ; but  as  the 
Chilean  grew  up,  and  expenses  increased  upon 
him,  every  honest  expedient  and  resource  that 
he  could  think  of  was  needful  to  pay  his  way 
and  keep  a fair  show  to  the  world.  I was  his 
only  clerk,  and,  next  to  himself  and  Raymond, 
had  the  best  knowledge  of  his  affairs,  for  he 
liked  and  trusted  me.  Among  so  few  hands 
things  could  be  kept  quiet ; I don’t  believe  that 
any  body  in  Armagh  had  the  smallest  guess  that 
he  was  not  laying  by  money  for  the  girls,  though 
every  season  brought  us  some  push.  About  the 
beginning  of  the  year  1800  we  had  an  uncom- 
mon hard  one,  owing  to  a sort  of  run  on  the 
Bank : all  the  farmers  were  drawing  out  their 
money  to  buy  flaxseed,  which  was  expected  to 
be  the  profitable  crop  that  year.  Mr.  La  Touche 
had  made  a large  investment  in  fine  linen  for 
an  American  house,  the  first  he  ever  dealt  with  ; 
but  his  brother-in-law,  the  boy  Madame  O’Neil 
shipped  out,  who  had  come  to  be  a merchant  in 
Baltimore,  recommended  it,  and  they  were  to 
pay  ten  per  cent,  above  the  ordinary  price.  The 
linen  had  been  packed  and  shipped,  but  no 
money  could  be  got  for  it  for  three  months  to 
come : that  was  the  condition  of  the  contract ; 
but  the  house  was  thought  safe  and  steady, 
the  profits  would  be  considerable,  and  Mr.  La 
Touche  was  pushed  by  a Quaker  firm  in  Belfast 
who  did  not  know  his  difficulties — he  never 
would  let  man  know  them  if  it  could  be  helped. 
A brother  linen-merchant  of  the  name  of  Clark 
— by-the-by,  he  was  a Presbyterian,  and  some 
relation  to  Mr.  Forbes  — had  made  him  sole 
executor  and  trustee  of  certain  house  property 
in  Armagh ; all  he  had  to  leave,  and  a very  de- 
cent provision  for  his  widow  and  two  dumb  girls. 
The  widow',  poor  woman  ! had  never  been  very 
bright ; of  course  her  husband  knew  that,  and 
left  the  entire  management  of  the  property  in 
La  Touche’s  hands. 

“I  knew  the  master  had  scruples  about  it, 
and  if  the  town-rates’  deposit  had  not  been  used 
up,  he  would  not  have  done  it ; but  there  was 
nobody  to  ask  him  a question'  on  the  subject, 
nobody  to  know  of  it  at  all  till  the  money  came 
back  from  America,  and  things  wrere  made  right 
again ; so  he  took  a mortgage  on  the  widow’s 
houses  to  their  full  value,  and  rather  above  it, 
from  a Dublin  Jew  of  the  name  of  Reubens. 
You  may  have  heard  of  him,  sir,  for  he  was 
famous  for  such  transactions  when  your  firm  did 
business  in  the  royal  city,  and  was  known  to 
them,  if  I do  not  mistake.  Money-lenders  are 
apt  to  be  known  to  highly  respectable  houses. 
Mr.  Forbes  had  dealt  with  Reubens,  to  my  cer- 
tain knowledge.  I think  it  was  through  him 
that  La  Touche  got  acquainted  with  the  Jew. 
He  wrasn’t  the  worst  of  his  kind,  though  he  took 
a heavy  percentage,  and  was  hard  in  exacting 
payment.  They  said  he  had  no  soul  to  leave 
his  gatherings  to  but  one  daughter,  and  there 
was  a queer  story  about  her.  However,  it  has 


* 

nothing  to  do  with  the  one  I am  telling.  The 
master  knew  Reubens,  and  took  the  mortgage, 
and  we  got  over  that  push.  The  run  on  our 
bank  slackened  with  the  passing  of  the  seed- 
time ; but  as  the  summer  drew  on  prices  began 
to  rise,  the  season  was  dry  and  warm  beyond 
the  common' — old  people  said  they  never  re- 
membered such  a summer — and  the  crops  were 
parched  up  at  the  roots.  There  was  nothing 
like  a harvest  except  on  low-lying  marshy 
grounds,  and  the  flax  in  which  our  farmers  put 
such  confidence  had  scarcely  any  yield.  That 
told  on  the  linen  trade,  of  course ; the  rapid  rise 
in  the  price  of  materials  brought  down  many  a 
flourishing  house  in  the  towns  of  Ulster,  and  the 
dearth  of  1800  set  in.  You’ll  remember  it,  sir, 
though  you  must  have  been  young  then.  Some 
people  said  it  was  a judgment  on  Ireland  for  let- 
ting go  her  Parliament.  That  was  the  year  of 
the  Union,  and  a great  fuss  there  was  about  it 
in  the  south  and  west ; but  between  the  failure 
of  the  flax  crop  and  the  rise  of  grain,  the  north 
had  matters  nearer  home  to  think  of : the  poor 
had  sore  want  among  them,  business  was  at 
sixes  and  sevens,  the  best-doing  people  in  the 
country  had  to  draw  on  their  savings,  and  with 
the  fall  of  the  winter  another  run  on  the  Ar- 
magh Bank  began. 

‘ ‘ The  American  house  had  not  paid  yet ; the 
linen  had  a long  passage — it  was  nearly  three 
months  out  at  sea ; such  passages  were  not  un- 
common at  the  time — ships  and  every  thing  else 
go  quicker  now  ; but  when  it  came  to  hand  there 
was  a glut  in  the  Baltimore  market ; the  house 
was  honorable,  but  it  could  not  pay,  as  Mr.  La 
Touche  knew.  American  bills  were  not  thought 
very  safe  then,  so  he  did  not  like  to  take  them ; 
but  they  had  promised,  by  high  and  low,  to  set- 
tle the  whole  account  through  their  Dublin 
banker  within  the  month  of  December. 

‘ ‘ So  much  money  kept  out  of  our  hands  threw 
us  back  every  way ; when  the  run  began,  Mr. 
La  Touche  first  parted  with  all  his  plate ; he 
took  it  to  Belfast  himself,  and  sold  it  privately 
to  a goldsmith  he  knew  in  High  Street.  Then, 
sir — I know  it  was  desperation  made  him  do  it 
— he  took  a chest  full  belonging  to  Lord  Lurgan, 
and  left  with  him  for  safe-keeping,  and  put  it  in 
pawn  with  a broker  he  could  depend  on.  After 
that  he  borrowed  from  the  Catholic  dean — good 
man,  he  lent  him  all  he  had  saved  up  for  many 
a year  to  put  a painted  window  in  the  Armagh 
chapel  after  his  death,  and  keep  himself  in  mem- 
ory among  his  parishionei’s.  There  was  a 
Scotchman,  too,  that  obliged  the  master.  We 
never  got  over  wondering  at  it ; he  was  a Glas- 
gow merchant,  of  the  name  of  Macqueen,  who 
traveled  in  Ulster  to  buy  up  linen  for  himself, 
and  had  been  often  enough  entertained  at  the 
Bank.  With  these  desperate  expedients  we  got 
over  the  early  part  of  the  winter ; but  the  run 
increased  as  the  year  drew  to  an  end  and  the 
times  grew  harder;  still,  every  order  was  paid 
as  it  came  in ; not  one  of  the  neighbors  imag- 
ined that  we  were  pressed,  for  the  dean  and  the 
Scotchman  kept  the  secret  like  true  friends,  and 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


7 


La  Touche  bore  up  at  home  and  abroad  as  if 
nothing  at  all  was  wrong  with  him.  He  kept 
the  worst  of  it  even  from  his  wife,  not  to  vex 
and  trouble  her — poor  woman  ! she  would  not 
have  madfi  so  many  parties  or  bought  so  many 
fine  clothes  if  she  had  known  how  things  were 
going — but  his  hair,  which  had  been  as  black  as 
a raven  at  Easter,  was  more  than  half  gray  at 
Martinmas,  and  I know  the  sorest  of  his  con- 
cerns was  the  mortgage  on  the  widow’s  houses. 
Nothing  else  made  him  bring  his  spirit  down  to 
ask  a loan  of  the  La  Touches  of  Dublin.  They 
were  his  relations,  as  I have  said,  but  had  al- 
ways given  the  Armagh  Bank  the  cold  shoulder, 
partly  because  they  thought  it  interfered  with 
their  business  in  the  north,  and  partly  on  ac- 
count of  an  old  quarrel  which  had  happened  be- 
tween them  and  the  master’s  father  when  he 
split  away  from  the  firm.  However,  La  Touche 
applied  to  them  in  his  extremity,  and  knowing 
they  could  trust  him,  besides  wishing  to  keep  up 
the  credit  of  the  family,  I suppose,  they  con- 
sented, after  a good  deal  of  consideration  and 
inquiry,  to  advance  him  two  thousand  on  the 
security  of  his  house  and  stock.  I must  allow 
the  master  did  not  tell  them  the  exact  state  of 
his  affairs ; he  kept  back  all  about  the  plate,  the 
mortgage,  and  the  town  rates.  Yet  La  Touche 
was  scarcely  to  blame  for  that.  On  the  very 
day  their  inquiries  began,  he  received  a letter 
from  the  Baltimore  house,  stating  that  Burgess 
and  Co.  would  pay  over  to  him  the  full  price  of 
his  linen  on  the  21st  of  December. 

“ £ Wilson,’  said  he,  ‘that  will  take  the  wid- 
ow’s houses  and  Lord  Lurgan’s  plate  off  my 
mind;  the  Dublin  people’s  two  thousand  will 
keep  us  up  in  spite  of  the  run,  and  I will  pay  it 
off  with  the  help  of  Providence  and  close  atten- 
tion to  business.’ 

“We  were  in  the  middle  of  December  by  this 
time ; the  last  of  our  money  was  gone ; two  or 
three  civil  farmers  had  been  promised  off ; their 
drafts  were  to  be  paid  next  week,  when  we  £ ould 
get  coin  enough  from  the  Dublin  mint,  where 
something  had  gone  wrong  with  the  dies,  and 
the  honest  peqple  believed  us.  The  weather 
was  terribly  cold  and  wet ; Mr.  La  Touche  had 
a severe  cold — he  took  no  care  of  himself — but 
the  missus  would  not  hear  of  him  going  to  Dub- 
lin; besides,  there  were  reasons  for  his  staying 
at  home.  Lord  Lurgan  was  daily  expected  at 
his  seat,  and  the  dean  had  fallen  into  what  proved 
his  last  Sickness.  Yet  somebody  must  go  for  the 
money.  By  special  agreement  it  Avas  to  be  got  in 
gold,  as  that  would  senre  the  Armagh  Bank  best. 
Raymond  was  his  father’s  right-hand  man  ; he 
knew  the  desperate  position  of  the  house,  the 
mortgage,  the  plate,  the  borroAvings  — all  Avere 
knoAvn  to  him  ; he  was  the  eldest  son  and  main- 
stay of  the  family,  next  to  La  Touche  himself. 
Every  body  kneAv  Kaymond’s  sense  and  steadi- 
ness ; though  but  eighteen,  he  looked  a respons- 
ible man,  and  none  Avould  have  wondered  had 
they  knoAvn  the  errand  on  which  he  Avas  bound, 
Avhen  the  master  concluded  on  sending  him  to 
Dublin  in  his  stead.  Raymond  had  been  there 


before.  Burgess  and  Co.  and  the  La  Touches' 
knew  him ; so  did  Mr.  Eorbes ; his  house  was 
in  Dublin  then — by-the-bv,  there  Avas  a Avhisper 
that  the  times  were  telling  on  it,  but  that  could 
not  have  been  true,  for  Forbes  extend^  his 
business  and  moved  to  London  in  the  next  year; 
people  said  he  was  folloAving  the  Irish  Parlia- 
ment. I am  not  sure  that  the  Palivez  did  not 
knoAV  something  of  Raymond  too  — yes,  why 
should  that  surprise  you  ? — their  house  Avas  in*1 
Dublin  then,  and  had  been  ever  since  they  came 
from  Amsterdam.  Well,  they  knew  him,  I 
think — at  least,  all  La  Touche’s  friends  did ; it 
seemed  a perfectly  proper  thing,  and  the  boy 
set  out  for  Dublin,  looking  as  handsome,  high 
spirited,  and  kinQly  as  ever  I saw  him.  He 
started  by  the  coach  on  Wednesday  morning, 
and  Avas  to  come  back  on  Sunday  night,  for  the 
sooner  the  money  came  the  better,  and  Ray- 
mond promised  his  father  he  would  not  let  the 
bag  out  of  his  hand  or  sight  from  when  it  was 
locked  up  till  it  Avas  delivered  to  him.  He  took 
a pair  of  pistols  Avith  him,  and  Raymond  Avas 
not  a bad  shot. 

“The  Dublin  mail  was  ahvay^Avell  armed, 
and  had  never  been  stopped  within  the  memory 
of  man.  The  boy  left  us  with  every  chance  of 
safety.  No  letter  could  be  expected  Avithin  the 
time,  and  Ave  Avaited  in  high  hope  for  Sunday 
evening.  It  came  ;%i  clear,  starlight,  frosty 
night  as  one  could  Avish  to  see  in  December. 
Mr.  La  Touche  went  doAvn  to  the  coach-office 
just  at  the  hour  to  meet  his  son.  The  coacH 
came  into  Armagh  at  eight  precisely.  I was  in 
the  office  making  up  the  fire,  to  have  it  bright  1 
and  cheerful  for  receiving  the  Avelcome  traveler 
and  counting  out  the  gold.  The  coach-office  Avas 
not  five  minutes  walk  from  the  Bank.  I heard 
the  guard’s  bugle,  and  the  roll  of  the  wheels  as 
it  came  in  through  the  quiet  night.  But  oh! 
Mr.  Esthers,  I Avill  never  forget  the  father’s  face 
Avhen  he  rushed  in  and  cried,  ‘Raymond is  not 
there,  and  the  guard  and  driver  knoAV  nothing 
about  him  !’  It  is  all,  in  a manner,  burned  into 
my  memory  like  a fearful  picture,  not  to  be  for- 
gotten though  put  out  of  sight ; but  I can’t  go 
over  it  circumstantially,  there  is  such  a confu- 
sion and  mixiifg  up  of  troubles.  I believe  that 
from  the  first  minute  La  Touche  ljad  got  some 
kind  of  an  impression  like  the  terrible  truth. 
He  tried  to  say  Raymond  had  been  too  late  for 
the  coach,  and  would  come  by  the  next  mail ; but 
Avithin  the  same  hour  he  took  a post-chaise,  bid 
me  to  break  it  to  the  missus  the  best  way  I 
could,  and  started  for  Dublin  with  nothing  but 
the  clothes  he  stood  in. 

“ I broke  it  to  her.  She  stood  it  wonderfully 
at  first,  and  said  much  as  her  husband  had  done 
about  Raymond  being  too  late  and  coming  ; but 
the  maid  told  me  her  mistress  never  slept  at  all 
that  night,  and  might  be  seen  in  all  corners  of 
the  house  wringing  her  hands  and  moaning  like 
a ghost.  The  Aveek  passed  aAvay  — the  most 
dreadful  seAren  days  I eA'er  kneAv.  Mr.  La 
Touche  came  back  Avith  the  Sunday  night’s 
coach  looking  tAventy  years  older. 


8 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


“Raymond  had  been  at  the  two  banks  in 
Dublin  ;v  got  the  money  paid  down  ; was  seen 
going  toward  the  coach-office  in  Castle  Street 
with  a leather  bag  in  his  hand,  but  there  all 
trace^f  him  was  lost.  No  friend  of  the  family 
had  seen  or  heard  of  him  ; he  had  not  been  at 
Forbes’s  or  the  Palivez,  and  from  that  hour  to 
this  no  word  or  sign  could  ever  be  made  out  of 
the  boy.  Where  he  went,  or  what  became  of 


“ The  first  sight  I got  of  the  master  wh^n  he 
came  back  showed  me  that  the  man’s  spirit  and 
heart  were  broken,  and  that  he  had  given  up 
his  son,  his  money,  and  himself  for  lost.  He 
made  no  concealment,  no  endeavor  to  put  a fair 
face  on  any  thing,  even  to  his  wife  and  family, 
but  sent  them  off  to  a cousin  he  had  in  the 
county  Antrim — their  parting  would  have  moved 
the  heart  of  a stone — closed  his  bank,  told  me 


Mr.  La  Touche  went  down  to  the  coach-office  just  at  the  hour  to  meet  his  son. 


him,  God  only  knows.  Wherever  it  was,  fully 
four  thousand  pounds — his  father’s  last  hope 
and  only  chance  — went  with  him;  and  if  it 
were  his  own  act  and  deed,  may  God  forgive 
him  ! Mr.  Esthers,  it  is  sixteen  years  ago,  knd 
I was  but  a clerk  in  the  establishment,  yet  I can 
not  look  back  on  that  time,  and  all  that  fol- 
lowed it,  without  feeling  sick  and  sore. 


to  give  up  every  thing,  and  went  back  to  Dublin 
to  surrender  and  go  into  the  Marshalsea. 

“There  never  tvas  such  confusion  and  con- 
sternation in  any  town  as  happened  in  Armagh 
when  La  Touche’s  bank  was  known  to  be  closed. 
The  thing  was  so  unlikely — so  unlooked  for  ; 
there  were  so  many  losers  who  could  ill  spare  it. 
I shall  never  forget  the  congregation  of  farmers 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


9 


and  common  people  outside,  with  shieves  of 
guinea-notes  in  their  hands,  flourishing  them  at 
the  windows,  and  threatening  to  pull  down  or 
burn  the  house  if  somebody  did  not  pay  them. 
Having  no  one  else  to  fall  on,  the  poor  souls 
attacked  me  for  helping  the  master  to  deceive 
and  cheat  the  country.  My  friends  wanted  me 
to  fly,  and  hide  in  Belfast ; but  I stood  by  my 
own  character  and  his,  telling  in  public  and 
private  how  we  would  have  paid  every  body  but 
for  the  loss  of  the  money  and  the  boy.  I had 
not  a pleasant  time  of  it,  but  there  was  need  of 
sbme  voice  to  speak  for  them.  Evil  tongues 
and  evil  thoughts  rose  up  against  the  family 
whose  fame  had  stood  so  fair  till  then.  There 
was  a report — I think  it  began  with  the  La 
Touches  of  Dublin ; people’s  relations  forever, 
you  see — that  Raymond  had  acted  according  to 
his  father’s  instructions,  and  he  and  the  four 
thousand  would  be  forthcoming  when  the  whole 
business  was  over.  I knew  that  to  be  false,  and 
I told  the  hottest  of  the  creditors  so  to  their 
* faces. 

u However,  it  was  a sad  and  bad  bankruptcy. 
The  tradesmen’s  bills  and  the  servants’  wages, 
my  own  salary — but  I didn’t  care  for  that — all 
were  left  unpaid.  The  La  Touches  of  Dublin 
seized  on  the  house  and  stock  as  soon  as  they 
possibly  could  ; the  furniture,  and  even  the 
wearing  apparel  which  the  poor  family  had  left 
behind  them — goodness  knows  they  went  bare 
enough  — when  sold  out  by'  auction,  did  not 
fetch  a penny  in  the  pound.  Lord  Luflgan 
threatened  an  indictment  for  the  pawning  of 
his  plate  ; the  town  council  talked  of  another 
for  embezzlement  — they  meant  the  rates,  you 
see  ; but  the  worst  of  all  was  the  mortgage  on 
the  poor  widow’s  houses.  Reubens,  the  money- 
lender, came  down  on  them  like  a raven.  I 
did  my  best  for  the  sake  of  the  master’s  con- 
science, and  my  own  knowledge  of  the  fact,  to 
get  him  to  allow  the  widow  and  her  dumb  girls 
some  provision.  He  was  a horribly  hard,  dry 
old  man,  who  had  been  dying  of  consumption 
from  his  youth,  but  it  lasted  him  above  seventy 
years  ; there  was  nothing  but  skin  and  bone 
and  love  of  money  in  the  creature , but  I got 
Dargan  the  attorney  to  write  to  him  about  a 
flaw  we  thought  was  in  the  mortgage,  and,  thank 
God!  the  poor  family  did  get  a trifle — just 
enough  to  keep  them  in  a poor  cottage  with  their 
own  spinning.  There  is  only  one  of  the  daugh- 
ters living  now,  and  Miss  Livy  has  taken  her. 
Oh  ! but  she — Miss  Livy  I mean — was  the  wild 
woman  when  it  all  came  to  her  knowledge. 
Sometimes  her  temper  and  sometimes  her  grief 
got  the  better  of  her  senses.  They  tell  me  she 
has  never  been  the  same  since.  Her  belief  was 
what  I could  never  think  true — it  was  so  un- 
like the  boy,  that  Raymond  had  gone  off  with 
the  money  to  spend  it  in  France  or  America. 
Fro^that  opinion  nothing  could  move  her, 
thougn  no  advertisement,  no  search,  no  offers 
of  reward  could  ever  bring  forth  the  least  intel- 
ligence of  his  being  seen  on  board  a ship  or  any 
where  after  he  passed  down  Castle  Street.  She 


stood  to  it  that  he  had  bribed  ship-captains  and 
disguised  himself,  and  for  his  sake  she  took  a 
hatred  to  all  boys. 

“Little  Lucien  — the  child  was  not  seven 
then  — had  to  be  kept  out  of  her  sight,  in  a 
manner ; and  when  his  uncle  O’Neil  offered  to 
take  and  bring  him  up  to  his  business,  by  way 
of  providing  for  one  of  the  children,  she  packed 
him  off  with  Denis  Dulan’s  wife,  whom  her  hus- 
band had  sent  for  to  Baltimore,  saying,  if  he 
followed  his  brother’s,  example  it  should  not  be 
in  Ireland.  The  poor  missus  had  always  been 
under  her  fingers,  and  the  only  dispute  they 
ever  had  was  about  the  lost  boy.  His  poor 
mother  would  not  hear  it  said  that  her  Raymond 
had  run  away  with  his  father’s  money.  She 
cried  over  the  shame  and  sorrow  night  and  day, 
and  would  mind  nothing  else,  till  one  night 
early  in  the  new  year  she  roused  the  house,  and 
nearly  the-  whole  neighborhood,  though  it  was 
the  open  country,  with  screams  that  she  had 
seen  Raymond  in  her  room,  and  that  he  told 
her  he  had  been  murdered  and  buried  in  an  old 
house  in  Dublin.  The  nurse,  who  had  gone 
with  them  from  Armagh,  and  all  the  old  women 
about,  believed  that  Mrs.  La  Touche  had  seen 
something ; bqt  the  poor  lady’s  brain  was  just 
giving  up.  From  that  hour  she  never  spoke  a 
sensible  word,  but  raved  continually  about  her 
son,  the  old  house,  and  the  man  that  murdered 
him,  and  how  he  should  be  brought  to  justice. 
She  lived  in  .that  way  for  seven  years,  fteing 
otherwise  quiet  and  easily  managed.  It  was 
a dreary  house  they  had,  in  the  midst  of  a farm 
which  the  master  had  bought  for  his  cousin 
when  he  was  well  off,  and  the  boy  could  not  get 
married  without  it.  The  cousin  had  no  family, 
and  his  wife  was  dead  ; but  his  housekeeper 
couldn’t  agree  with  Miss  Livy.  I don’t  know 
what  she  didn’t  say  of  the  woman  — nothing 
tames  woman’s  tongue,  Mr.  Esthers — so  he  gave 
the  La  Touches  part  of  his  house  for  old  time’s 
sake,  and  walled  up  the  door  between  him  and 
them.  Miss  Livy  made  the  girls  spin,  and  man- 
aged carefully  what  the  cousin  allowed  them 
off  the  farm  ; but  they  would  have  been  poor 
enough  if  it  had  not  been  for  a friend  that  sent 
them  money  every  quarter;  first  less,  and  then 
more,  till  it  came,  to  a decent  little  income. 
The  man  who  told  me  heard  it  from  Miss  Livy 
herself.  They  are  getting  that  money  yet,  and 
neither  she  nor  one  of  the  family  ever  could 
make  out  whence  it  came.  Of  all  the  charity 
and  kindness  poor  La  Touche  had  done  in  his 
day,  of  all  the'  neighbors  he  had  helped  and  the 
strangers  he  had  entertained,  there  was  not  one 
to  show  the  slightest  remembrance  in  the  midst 
of  his  ruin  and  disgrace  but  a man  who  had 
very  little  right,  and  that  was  my  present  em- 
ployer, Mr.  Forbes.  He  had  known  the  master 
only  in  the  way  of  business,  and  that  for  a short 
time ; yet,  from  the  first  day  of  their  misfor- 
tunes, he  was  never  done  sending  the  family 
presents  of  goods  and  money,  and,  Mr.  Esthers, 
he  is  sending  them  still,  though  I nor  nobody 
ever  heard  him  mention  Raymond’s  business  if 


10 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


he  could  help  it ; but  he  is  a sober,  serious  man, 
very  particular  about  his  words,  and  it  is  hard 
to  think  of  what  any  one  should  say  on  that 
matter.  One  thing  Mr.  La  Touche  told  me 
when  I saw  him  last,  that  Forbes  had  solemnly 
asserted  to  him  his  belief  in  Raymond’s  inno- 
cence, bad  as  the  case  looked. 

“ ‘ And,  Wilson,’  said  my  master  when  going 
over  the  circumstance — ‘ I couldn’t  see  his  face, 
for  it  was  twilight,  and.  he  sat  in  the  corner,  but, 
judging  from  his  voice,  Forbes  could  not  have 
been  more  moved  if  the  boy  had  been  his  son 
instead  of  mine  — Wilson,  I have  the  same  be- 
lief, God  be  praised  for  it ; my  Raymond  did 
not  do  all  that  has  been  done  of  his  own  will 
or  wickedness,  and  Providence  will  make  his  in- 
nocence clear  when  I am  dead  and  gone.’ 

“My  poor  master  spoke  thus  to  me  when  he 
lay  sick  in  the  Marshalsea.  I think  his  sick- 
ness was  just  heart-break,  though  the  doctors 
called  it  decline.  At  any  rate,  he  got  out  of 
the  troubles  of  his  bankruptcy  and  the  danger 
of  the  indictments,  for  before  the  law  had  gone 
through  half  its  course  he  died,  in  his  poor  pris- 
on room,  and  in  a most  Christian  manner,  leav- 
ing his  blessing  to  his  family — it  was  all  he  had 
to  leave  them — and  visited  and  looked  after  in 
all  his  wants  and  wishes  by  Mr.  Forbes.  It 
was  a thing  I never  knew  till  the  Dublin  under- 
taker, who  has  now  set  himself  up  in  Holborn, 
told  me  that  Forbes  paid  the  whole  expense  of 
his  funeral,  and  such  a handsome  one  never 
went  out  of  the  Marshalsea.  Miss  Livy  says 
that  the  money  he  sent  helped  to  bury  the  girls 
too  as.  became  their  family.  Poor  things  ! they 
dropped  off  one  after  another  as  they  grew  up 
in  that  out-of-the-world  farm-house : it  stands 
on  the  Antrim  coast,  two  miles  from  the  Giant’s 
Causeway.  They  say  their  mother  never  missed 

them,  nor  her  husband  either;  but  she  went  at 
lastrlierself,  and  died  saying  she  was  going  to 
get  justice  for  Raymond.” 

“It  is  a strange  story,”  said  his  companion, 
as  the  elder  man  came  to  a pause — “a  very 
strange  story.  You  say  the  P«alivezi  were  in 
Dublin  at  the  time?”  ' L, 

“The  Palivezi — is  that  liow  one  should  call 
them  ? — I never  could  make  out  the  proper  way 
of  Greek  names — yes  ; they  were  in  DubliP/but 
tliey  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  business.”  • 

“Of  course  not;  Madame’s  father  was  alive 

then,  but  getting  old — superannuated,  in  a man- 
ner— and  she  was  taking  the  direction  of  af- 
fairs.” 

In  what  a slow,  summing-up  fashion  that 
metallic  voice  spoke. 

“ Yes ; but  they  could  give  no  intelligence 
of  Raymond — in  fact,  had  not  seen  him  at  all ; I 
heard  it  from  her  own  mouth,  having  to  wait  on 
Madame  to  beg  her  influence  with  the  Jew  Reu- 
bens. How  grand  and  handsome  she  looked ! 
They  tell  me  she  looks  the  very  same  yet. 
And  how  handsomely  she  acted  by  us ! The 
Jew  stood  in  fear  of  her,  I understand  — from 
some  cause  of  money,  no  doubt — and  her  word 
went  as  far  as  the  attorney’s  letter.  Dear  me, 


it  is  one  o’clock,  and  I promised  to  be  with  my 
sister  in  Hammersmith  at  half  past,”  and  the 
gray-haired  man  rose. 

“I’ll  walk  part  of  the  way  with  you,”  said 
his  junior.  “Waiter,  our  bill ;”  and,  after  set- 
tling their  account  at  the  coffee-house,  the  two 
walked  out,  and  I sat  there  alone,  pondering  on 
that  sad  story  of  misery  and  sin.  I had  need 
to  ponder,  as  the  sequel  will  prove.. 


CHAPTER  III. 
morton’s  grammar-school. 

I sat  as  I had  done  for  an  hour  and  more, 
silent  and  motionless,  with  the  unread  paper  in 
my  hand.  The  men  who  had  talked  within  a 
few  feet  of  me  had  not  been  aware  of  my  pres- 
ence ; the  box  I occupied  was  somewhat  out  of 
sight  in  a corner  of  that  old  coffee-house.  Had 
they  seen  they  would  not  have  recognized  me, 
and,  under  other  circumstances,  I should  not 
have  known  them ; but  the  story  to  which  I 
listened  was  that  of  my  own  luckless  family; 
the  narrator  was  my  father’s  old  and  faithful 
clerk,  Wat  Wilson,  and  I was  the  little  Lucien 
La  Touche,  who  had  been  sent  so  early  to  his 
uncle  in  America.  Every  particular  related 
had  place  in  my  memory,  stamped  there  with  a 
force  and  vividness  no  after  event  could  over- 
lay, for  they  stood  among  life’s  first  impressions 
— our  pleasant  old  house  in  Armagh,  with  its 
homely  business  and  frequent  merrymakings — 
the  faces  of  my  father  and  mother,  the  one  so 
manly,  the  other  so  beautiful — my  young  sis- 
ters, and  our  plays  in  house  and  garden — my 
granddam,  too,  with  her  kindness  and  her  tem- 
pers; and,  above  all,  our  clever,  handsome  elder 
brother,  Raymond,  of  whom  we  were  so  proud 
and  fond.  Then  there  was  the  Sunday  night 
when  he  did  not  come  back,  and  we  lost  him 
forever;  my  father’s  return  from  that  vain, 
heartbreaking  search ; our  sudden  poverty  in 
the  lonely  farm-house,  and  the  night  of  name- 
less terror  when  my  mother’s  reason  gave  way 
— all  stood  out  with  terrible  distinctness  from 
the  misty  background  of  my  earliest  recollec- 
tions.' The  connecting  chain  of  causes  and  cir- 
cumstances, not  to  be  apprehended  by  the  child’s 
mind,  had  been  partly  learned  and  partly  guess- 
ed at  in  after  years.  The  honest^Jrk’s  .narra- 
tive made  them  still  clearer,  ancT also  showed 
me  the  extent  of  my  family’s  obligations  to  the 
Scotch  banker,  whom  I yet  knew  only  by  name. 
From  the  depths  of  my  soul  I blessed  the  gener- 
ous man  whose  sympathy  had  helped  my  father 
through  his  last  desolate  days,  and  given  him 
the  handsomest  funeral  that  ever  went  out  of 
the  Marshalsea.  Might  the  blessing  promised 
to  those  who  visited  the  sick  and  in  prison  come 
upon  him ! If  fortune  ever  permitted  me,  I 
would  acknowledge  the  deep  debt  to  him  ana  his. 

In  the  mean  time  I had  returned  from  Amer- 
ica— a stranger  to  all  that  ever  knew  me — a 
man  of  twenty-three,  strongly  resembling  my 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


11 


father  in  person  even  as  my  childhood  promised, 
with  his  strength  of  bone  and  muscle,  his  ruddy 
brown  complexion,  rounded  face,  and  dark  curl- 
ing hair ; ay  — and  in  spite  of  those  gloomy 
shadows  cast  on  the  morning  sky  of  my  life — 
with  his  cheerful  temperament  and  brave  will  to 
work  my  way  and  get  my  share  of  the  world’s 
good  things,  if  it  were  possible.  Excepting  that 


end  of  my  seventh  year  into  the  guardian  hands 
of  Gerald  O’Neil,  then  one  of  the  wealthiest 
merchants  in  the  capital  of  Maryland,  and  my 
maternal  uncle. 

The  first  glance  I got  of  him  brought  Madame 
O’Neil,  my  grandmother,  with  all  the  awe  she 
used  to  inspire,  back  on  my  childish  mind.  He 
had  the  same  tall,  upright  figure,  and  stern, 


Mrs.  Dulan  delivered  me  safely  to  Gerald  O’Neil. 


I had  made  a voyage  in  the  charge  of  Denis 
Dulan’s  wife,  and  that  I had  been  sixteen  years 
with  my  uncle,  the  merchant  in  Baltimore,  my 
existence  had  no  history  known  to  friends  or 
kindred  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic.  It  had  a 
story,  nevertheless,  which  must  be  told,  how- 
ever briefly,  for  the  better  understanding  of  that 
which  was  to  come. 

Mrs.  Dulan  delivered  me  safely  toward  the 


handsome  face;  a prince  among  merchants 
rather  by  his  manners  than  his  means — trading 
in  a noble,  lordly  fashion,  with  high  honor  in 
his  own  transactions,  and  rigid  exaction  of  his 
rights  from  others  ; he  was  half  feared,  wholly 
trusted,  and  held  in  more  than  common  repute 
among  the  ready  and  rising  men  of  that  new 
world. 

With  the  destiny  that  compelled  him  to  trade, 


12 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


my  uncle  had  determined  to  be  even  by  found- 
ing a house  of  merchant-princes.  With  that 
purpose  he  had  toiled  and  reckoned  ever  since 
the  old  madame  shipped  him  off ; and  he  got 
into  the  counting-house  of  an  old  family  follow- 
er, who  had  emigrated  before  the  last  turret  of 
Einmore  Castle  fell,  and  grown  rich  in  America. 

My  uncle  had  been  lucky  there  too — rose  to 
be  a partner  in  the  concern,  bought  out  the  old 
follower’s  interest,  reigned  in  his  stead,  and 
largely  increased  the  business  and  importance 
of  the  house.  Nobody  called  him  a screw  or  a 
skinflint,  but  every  body  knew  he  could  get 
money  and  take  care  of  it.  To  build  a mer- 
cantile firm  of  the  first  magnitude  was  the  ob- 
ject which  he  did  not  avow  in  so  many  words 
— my  uncle  was  too  proud  for  such  opening  of 
his  mind — but  he  never  concealed  it. 

His  home  was  an  American  boarding-house  ; 
his  establishment  was  one  black  servant.  He 
gave  no  entertainments ; he  took  no  holidays ; 
he  went  to  few  places  of  amusement ; he  made 
no  intimate  friends ; and,  though  always  cour- 
teous— as  became  a descendant  of  Tyrone — he 
paid  no  particular  attention  to  the  ladies. 

Baltimore  contests  the  prize  of  beauty  with 
all  America,  as  Limerick  does  with  my  native 
Ireland ; but  my  uncle  had  kept  clear  of  its 
snares.  No  match  sufficiently  advantageous  to 
help  in  the  building  of  his  great  pyramid  had 
been  presented  to  his  view,  and  he  was  too  bent 
on  the  business  to  regard  any  other  attraction. 
If  there  had  ever  been  a soft  part  in  the  man’s 
nature,  it  was  trodden  out  in  the  working,  reck- 
oning routine  of  his  life. 

There  was  nothing  when  I knew  him  but 
worldly  prudence,  energy,  and  pride.  He*would 
found  the  great  mercantile  house  of  O’Neil,  since 
no  better  could  be  done ; and,  not  choosing  to 
marry  himself,  for  the  reasons  specified,  he 
would  bring  up  the  son  of  his  only  sister,  on 
whom  such  heavy  misfortunes  had  fallen,  to  be 
his  heir  and  successor  in  the  grand  design,  and 
take  his  name  and  arms  if  found  worthy  of  them. 

Such,  I believe,  were  the  old  gentleman’s  in- 
tentions when  he  received  me  \yith  haughty 
kindness  from  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Dulan — honest 
woman,  she  could  not  have  had  more  care  or 
concern  about  her  own  child  — rewarded  her 
fidelity  with  a five-dollar  note,  exclusive  of  all 
costs,  and  gave  orders  for  my  entertainment  in 
the  boarding-house  till  he  could  find  a school 
for  me.  A school  was  found  within  the  same 
week  in  an  airy  suburb  of  the  town.  My  uncle 
gave  precise  directions  what  I was  to  be  taught. 
His  curriculum  included  all  the  branches  of  a 
sound  English  education,  supplemented  by 
French  and  Latin ; and  the  head-master  was 
specially  requested  to  let  him  know  if  I had  any 
particular  talent.  I believed  the  excellent  man 
at  first  discovered  one  for  poetry  and  the  belles 
lettres ; but,  finding  that  such  abilities  were  not 
likely  to  find  appreciation  with  my  uncle,  he 
settled  down  on  arithmetic  and  general  applica- 
tion. It  is  to  be  hoped  this  last  discovery  was 
genuine ; if  not  an  apt,  I was  a willing  scholar. 


My  uncle  had  not'  told  me  so — he  was  not  in  the 
habit  of  telling — but,  with  seven-year-old  pene- 
tration, I found  out  that  the  acquisition  and  re- 
tention of  his  good  graces  depended  on  my  get- 
ting on  at  school ; and  the  necessity  of  pleasing 
him  got  so  impressed  on  my  mind  at  the  begin- 
ning of  our  acquaintance,  that  it  was  not  fairly 
worn  out  at  its  end.  There  was  nobody  else 
for  me  to  please  or  look  to.  Father,  mother, 
Aunt  Livy,  and  sisters— all  had  been  left  far  off 
beyond  the  sea,  and  I was  alone,  under  the  ab- 
solute government  of  that  stern,  busy,  unfathom- 
able man,  as  he  seemed  to  my  childhood,  and 
somewhat  also  to  my  later  years.  My  uncle 
was  not  harsh  or  even  unkind  to  me.  He 
brought  me  up,  he  paid  for  my  schooling,  and 
would  have  provided  for  me  handsomely,  but  I 
could  never  feel  at  home  with  him,  nor  he  with 
me,  even  when  increasing  years  brought  us 
nearer  each  other’s  status  in  the  rational  world. 
Our  natures  were  contrary,  and  could  not  come 
together. 

Morton’s  grammar-school,  the  seminary  at 
which  he  placed  me,  was  one  of  the  best  and 
oldest  institutions  of  its  kind  in  Baltimore.  It 
had  been  established  by  a Scotch  family,  for  the 
education  of  Protestant  youth,  when  Maryland 
was  a Roman  Catholic  colony  under  the  Cal- 
verts, and  had  fk  unshed  ever  since,  descended 
from  father  to  son  like  a patrimony,  the  ranks 
of  its  inferior  teachers  being  always  reci’uited 
from  Scotland  and  the  Morton  clan.  They  were 
three  in  number,  besides  the  head-master,  owner 
and  governor  of  the  establishment — a man  above 
seventy,  who  held  at  once  the  reins  and  the  fer- 
rule for  more  than  forty  years  ; he  was,  by  pre- 
eminence, Mr.  Morton.  Then  there  was  his 
nephew,  assistant  and  successor,  known  to  us  by 
• the  style  and  title  of  Mr.  Andrew  Morton ; he  su- 
perintended the  second  form.  Next  came  Mr. 
Alexander  Morton  ; I think  he  was  a third 
cousin,  some  years  younger  and  very  lean;  he 
managed  the  third  and  fourth  ; and  last  of  all 
there  was  Master  Melrose  Morton,  a very  young 
man — almost  a boy,  indeed — for  he  was  but  ten 
years  older  than  myself,  and  had  the  direction 
of  the  fifth  and  sixth  forms,  being  quite  a new 
hand,  and  not  two  months  imported  when  I took 
my  seat  at  the  lowest  end  of  the  latter. 

I was  then  the  youngest  boy  in  the  school, 
and  the  last  that  could  be  received.^JDhere  was 
a rule  in  the  establishment,  laid  downby  its  first 
founder,  and  not  to  be  broken  under  high  and 
mysterious  penalties,  that  no  more  than  forty 
scholars  should  be  taken  under  any  inducement. 
The  boys  were  uncertain  whether  that  limit  had 
been  fixed  in  commemoration  of  Moses’s  forty 
days’  fast,  or  of  Ali  Baba’s  forty  thieves ; but 
then  all  agreed  in  a tradition  of  the  grammar- 
school  having  been  burnt  to  the  ground,  and 
the  greater  part  of  Baltimore  with  it,  nearly  a 
hundred  years  before,  when  the  reigning  Mor- 
ton was  induced  to  break  that  mystic  rule  in 
favor  of  the  governor’s  son.  However  that 
might  be,  no  more  than  forty  would  the  gram- 
mar-school or  its  master  receive ; and  I think 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


13 


his  active  old  dame,  Mrs.  Morton  (by-the-by, 
she  spoke  broad  Scotch,  and  always  wore  a 
checked  apron),  found  it  quite  enough  to  provide 
for  in  bed  and  board  — for  they  kept  no  day 
scholars — with  the  help  of  her  daughter-in-law, 
Mrs.  Andrew,  three  maids,  and  one  man,  who 
were  all  growing  old  in  the  service,  and  believed 
to  be  Mortons.  Contrary  to  the  use  and  wont 
of  Baltimore,  no  negroes  were  employed  on  the 
premises.  The  burning  of  the  school  was  said 
to  have  been  effected  by  one  newly  brought 
from  Guinea  in  that  slave -trading  time.  It 
was  not  the  only  particular  in  which  the  Mor- 
tons pleased  to  differ  from  current  custom  ; they 
were  Presbyterians,  and  we  were  marched  to 
the  meeting-house  twice  every  Sunday,  rank 
and  file,  with  the  teachers  at  the  head  of  their 
respective  divisions,  and  ranged  in  three  high, 
narrow  pews  appointed  for  our  accommodation 
in  that  low-pitched,  cheerless  edifice,  which  had 
been  built  about  the  time  of  the  Salem'  witch- 
burning, when  the  first  Scotch  congregation  set 
up  their  camp  ^n  Maryland,  and  expected  to 
bring  not  only  the  colony,  but  the  Indian  tribe, 
who  then  filled  all  the  forests  west  of  Chesa- 
peake Bay,  over  to  the  Westminster  Confession. 
J don’t  know  what  the  old  madame  would  have 
said  about  my  sitting  there  for  good  seven  hours 
every  Sunday,  but  it  did  not  trouble  my  uncle. 
In  the  hot  pursuit  of  wealth  and  mercantile  pre- 
eminence, he  had  got  free  of  priestly  trammels, 
if  they  ever  hung  much  about  him.  On  the 
subject  of  religion,  I nor  nobody  else  ever  heard 
him  speak.  He  was  seen,  but  not  very  frequent- 
ly, in  all  the  churches,  Protestant  and  Catholic, 
which  the  city  then  contained.  The  grammar- 
school  was  a good  one,  and  he  sent  me  to  the 
Mortons  without  making  difficulties  about  the 
meeting-house.'  I learned  to  stand  up  at  the 
extemporary  prayers  of  the  old  Scotch  minister 
— his  name  was  Renwick,  and  he  was  said  to  be 
of  the  family  of  the  last  Cameronian  preacher 
who  suffered  for  the  Covenant  — to  sit  at  the 
psalm-singing,  given  out  line  by  line,  and  guilt- 
less of  organ  or  pitch-pipe ; to  take  rank  at  the 
foot  of  my  class  before  the  pulpit,  and  repeat 
my  share  of  the  Assembly’s  Catechism  ; ay,  and 
to  play  pins  with  prudence  and  circumspec- 
tion while  the  long  prayer  was  going  forwand, 
and,  thanks  to  the  high  woodwork  in  front,  no- 
body could  possibly  guess  what  I and  my  play- 
fellows were4about  but  Master  Melrose. 

We  all  knew  him  to  be  no  strict  disciplina- 
rian. Promising  never  to  do  the  like  again  was 
generally  sufficient  to  get  pardon,  or,  at  least, 
silence  for  the  most  heinous  of  our  grammar- 
school  offenses.  Whatever  could  be  supposed 
unseen,  Master  Melrose  did  not  see  — that  is  to 
say,  did  not  report  it — which  would  have  brought 
us  into  trouble,  for  all  the  rest  of  the  Mortons 
were  rigidly  conscientious  teachers.  Melrose 
was  conscientious  too,  but  he  was  kindly  with 
it ; no  offender  escaped  without  a rebuke  from 
him  in  private;  no  lesson  could  be  left  unlearned 
somehow. 

He  had  a troop  of  little  boys  to  govern,  and 


got  his  share  of  vexation  and  trouble  in  that 
thankless  office  ; the  larger  boys  found  out  that 
his  salary  was  not  large,  and  his  relationship  to 
the  head-master  very  distant,  on  which  account 
they  were  inclined  to  make  small  of  him. 

I don’t  know  whether  he  found  me  easiest 
managed,  or  whether  he  took  kindly  to  me  from 
hearing  I was  a stranger  and  an  orphan,  but 
kindly  he  did  take ; and  before  I was  a week  at 
the  grammar-school,  my  trust  and  confidence 
were  placed  in  the  patronage  and  protection  of 
Master  Melrose. 

He  stood  by  me,  not  overtly.  Melrose  had 
come  from  Scotland,  and  was  sub  to  three,  be- 
sides the  old  and  young  Mrs.  Morton,  who  su- 
pervised him  considerably ; but  in  a private, 
unnoticeable  manner,  he  maintained  my  cause 
and  supported  my  spirits  through  hard  lessons, 
broken  rules,  and  attempts  at  fagging  by  the 
young  tyrants  jof  the  grammar-sdtool. 

The  third  usher  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  I 
clung  to  him,  having  no  other  friend.  Boy  or 
man  could  not  have  had  a better  one,  though 
no  two  were  ever  more  unlike  than  we. 

Melrose  was  serious  and  thoughtful  beyond 
his  years — beyond  most  people  of  any  age.  The 
boys  had  a notion  that  he  must  have  seen  a 
ghost,  or  met  with  something  extraordinary  in 
Scotland  to  make  him  so  sober. 

Sober  Melrose  was  in  look  and  manner,  but 
by  no  means  sour  or  slow,  as  sober  people  are 
apt  to  be.  Every  soul  about  the  grammar- 
school  knew  him  to  be  thoroughly  good-natured ; 
he  was  the  resource  of  every  one  in  a scrape  or 
a pickle,  as  my  lost  brother  Raymond  had  been 
far  away  in  Armagh.  He  was  active  in  person, 
quick  in  learning,  and  keen  in  observation,  par- 
ticularly of  character.  A more  honestly  or  sen- 
sibly conscientious  soul  I never  knew. 

Young  as  he  was,  his  moral  principles  were 
as  high  and  as  clear  as  those  of  a Christian 
philosopher.  He  was  deeply  and  devoutly  relig- 
ious, but  after  the  undemonstrative  Presbyterian  « 
fashion  ; a studious  lover  of  learning  for  its  own 
sake  ; not  endowed  with  any  particular  gift  or 
talent,  except  that  rare  one,  the  power  of  reason- 
ing well ; and  troubled  with  no  particular  weak- 
ness, except  a considerable  amount 'of  honest 
Scottish  pride,  which  made  him  careful  of  what 
people  might  think  or  say. 

In  face,  Melrose  was  neither  plain  nor  hand- 
some ; he  had  the  high  cheek-bones  and  deep- 
set  eyes  of  the  North,  a tolerably  fair  complex- 
ion, dark  brown  hair,  a little  wavy  and  in  fair 
quantity.  His  figure  was  tall,  raw-boned,  and 
angular ; but  there  was  a general  appearance 
of  strength  and  firmness  about  him,  which  I 
think  were  the  distinguishing  attributes  of  his 
character  too.  A silent,  steady  youth,  wise  in 
his  words,  upright  in  his  ways,  making  no  ac- 
quaintances because  he  felt  the  want  of  none, 
minding  his  daily  duties  in  the  grammar-school, 
and  going  home  to  his  mother  every  night, 
where  she  lived  in  a decent  little  house  on  the 
outskirts  of  Baltimore.  Such  was  Melrose  Mor- 
ton when  I knew  him  first,  and  such  he  con- 


14 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


tinued  to  be  through  all  the  years  of  our  friend- 
ship. 

It  thickened  every  day.  I had  need  of  friends 
then,  and  Melrose  stepped  into  the  place  left  va- 
cant in  my  early  world. 

By  degrees  I got  intimate  enough  to  be  taken 
home  with  him  to  see  his  mother,  a kindly,  gray- 
haired old  lady.  Small  their  house  was,  and 
their  income  must  have  been.  I am  not  sure 
that  they  had  much  more  than  the  third  usher’s 
earnings,  yet  nobody  could  call  Mrs.  Morton  and 
her  son  any  thing  but  lady  and  gentleman,  they 
had  such  a look  of  ancient  good-breeding. 

I noticed,  too,  that  Mrs.  Morton  did  not  speak 
broad  Scotch  like  the  mistress  of  the  grammar- 
school  ; and  in  one  of  my  visits  I heard  her 
speak  accidentally,  and  not  meant  for  my  hear- 
ing, of  the  time  they  lived  in  Dublin. 

Solitary  meditations  on  that  subject  brought 
me  to  tell  Melrose,  in  one  of  our  quiet  walks — 
he  used  to  take  me  with  him  up  Jones’s  Falls, 
and  over  the  hills,  when  the  school  hours  were 
done  on  Saturday  afternoons — the  sad,  strange 
family  secret  which  I had  been  warned  to  keep : 
it  was  the  only  rule  of  conduct  my  uncle  ever 
gave,  and  the  only  mention  of  it  I ever  heard 
him  make. 

Well,  I took  the  opportunity  to  tell  Melrose 
all  I knew  about  my  brother  Raymond,  and  how 
he  had  been  lost,  with  a vague,  childish  hope 
that,  as  he  had  enlightened  me  on  so  many 
matters,  he  might  be  able  to  clear  up  that  mys- 
tery too,  and  a certain  trust  that  he  would  not 
betray  my  confidence. 

We  were  in  a narrow  place  beside  the  Falls, 
far  out  of  sight  or  hearing  of  any  body;  the 
mossy  grass  was  slippery,  for  it  was  autumn 
time.  I remember  the  dark  red  flush  of  the 
American  trees.  Melrose  was  in  advance,  hold- 
ing me  fast  by  the  hand.  I felt  his  fingers  twitch 
and  tremble  as  if  they  had  been  struck  by  sud- 
den palsy ; and  when  I looked  up  into  his  face, 

* the  expression  of  fearful  memory  that  was  in  it 
made  me  stop  short  and  say  in  my  simplicity, 
“Did  you  see  him?  Did  he  tell  you  why  he 
went  away  ?” 

Melrose  stood  still  for  a minute  or  more,  as 
if  considering  what  he  should  say,  and  then 
answered,  “No,  Lucien  ; how  should  I see  him 
here  in  Baltimore  ?” 

“ But  you  were  in  Dublin  ; Mrs.  Morton  said 
so  last  Saturday ; maybe  it  was  long  ago  ?” 
said  I. 

“Yes,  Lucien,  it  was  very  long  ago.  If  I 
could  tell  you  any  thing  about  your  brother,  I 
would  do  it” — how  hardly  the  words  seemed  to 
come! — “but  I can  not;  and  your  uncle  was 
right  in  bidding  you  never  speak  of  him.  Take 
his  bidding  like  a good  boy ; if  you  don’t,  it  will 
bring  great  evil  to  yourself  and  your  family ; 
and  when  you  grow  up  you  will  know  the  rea- 
son why.” 

Melrose  said  a good  deal  more  in  the  same 
strain,  as  grown  people  are  apt  to  talk  to  chil- 
dren. I promised  never  to  speak  of  Raymond 
more,  and  I never  ventured  to  break  that  prom- 


ise; but,  in  spite  of  his  declaration  that  he  could 
tell  me  nothing  — in  spite  of  my  trust  in  the 
truth  of  all  his  sayings,  I had  a secret  conviction 
at  the  time  that  he  knew  more  than  he  pleased 
to  tell.  It  puzzled  me ; it  was  a trouble  to 
think  of;  it  lay  in  my  mind  year  after  year, 
like  a lost  key  at  the  bottom  of  a deep  well,  not 
to  be  got  to  the  lock  it  could  open,  and  forming 
the  dim,  mysterious  limit  of  our  friendship. 

In  all  my  after  visits  to  his  mother  I never 
heard  her  mention  Dublin  again,  and  the  only 
fragment  of  his  family  history  Melrose  ever  re- 
vealed to  me  was  that  he  had  been  an  only  son, 
and  named  in  honor  of  a little  town  in  the 
south  of  Scotland,  where  his  father  had  lived 
and  died  a parish  schoolmaster. 

I can  not  tell  how  or  why,  but  it  became 
clear  to  my  childish  understanding  that  Mel- 
rose did  not  like  to  hear  me  speak  of  my  old 
home  in  Armagh,  which  I was  much  inclined 
to  do  in  the  early  stage  of  our  acquaintance. 
I had  a great  zeal  to  please  the  third  usher,  for 
he  pleased  me,  so  the  unwelcome  subject  was 
dropped  between  us.  There  was  nobody  else  to 
whom  I could  talk  of  it ; the  boys  of  the  gram- 
mar-school would  take  no  interest  in  it,  and  I 
had  been  warned  not  to  tell  them  of  my  brother 
Raymond,  which  was  the  only  wonder.  My 
uncle  never  conversed  with  me  at  all ; indeed, 
he  never  saw  me  but  for  two  hours  on  the  first 
Monday  of  every  quarter,  when  I was  sent  for 
to  his  boarding-house,  strictly  examined  in  his 
private  room  on  all  the  branches  of  my  educa- 
tion, commanded  to  apply  myself  steadily  to 
every  one  of  them,  presented  with  two  dollars 
for  pocket-money,  and  dismissed  with  a sealed 
note  in  my  hand  to  the  head-master. 

The  waiting  in  the  parlor  for  that  to  be  writ- 
ten was  an  awful  process  to  me.  It  must  have 
contained  my  uncle’s  verdict  on  my  progress, 
and  was  probably  something  like  “not  guilty;” 
for,  though  old  Mr.  Morton  always  looked  grave 
and  grand  when  he  read  it,  I don’t  remember  to 
have  met  with  any  bad  consequences.  There 
were  no  vacations  at  that  school  but  Thanks- 
giving Week  and  the  anniversary  of  American 
Independence.  The  boys  scattered  off  then, 
but,  as  I was  not  wanted  home  to  the  boarding- 
house, most  of  my  holiday  time  was  spent  with 
Melrose  and  his  mother. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AN  ADVENTURE  IN  BALTIMORE. 

So  here  time  wore  on.  I rose  from  one  form 
to  another ; I took  some  prizes,  I got  into  some 
scrapes ; I grew  up  to  boyhood  with  all  its 
attendant  mischief  and  troublesomeness.  I 
learned  to  call  myself  a Marylander,  and  come 
out  powerfully  with  squibs  and  crackers  on  the 
4th  of  July.  Things  not  talked  of  melt  rapidly 
away  from  the  memory  of  the  young.  My' old 
Irish  home  grew  strange  and  dim  in  my  recol- 
lection ; so  did  the  household  faces.  I heard  of 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


15 


the  deaths  of  my  sisters  and  my  mother  as  the 
successive  announcements  reached  my  uncle. 
He  gave  the  intelligence  in  due  form,  as  if  it 
had  been  a piece  of  sombre  news,  and  I heard 
it  with  almost  as  little  feeling.  The  first  death, 
indeed,  was  a blow ; it  happened  only  two  years 
after  I came ; but  for  the  rest,  they  had  all 
grown  dead  and  dream-like  to  me  in  that  long 
and  early  absence.  I am  not  sure  that  I did 
not  come  to  be  ashamed  of  the  family.  Time 
had  made  me  sensible  of  the  ruin  and  disgrace 
that  fell  on  them  through  my  brother’s  disap- 
pearance. I had  outlived  the  sorrow,  but  not 
the  terrible  memories,  the  marvel  and  mystery 
of  that  inexplicable  loss.  I knew  now  why  it 
should  not  be  mentioned  to  strangers  — how 
damaging  it  would  be  to  my  future  position 
and  prospects,  as  my  uncle’s  mercantile  assist- 
ant and  probable  heir.  The  old  merchant  him- 
self, with  all  the  blood  and  honor  of  the  O’Neils 
to  help  him,  could  not  have  guarded  the  secret 
with  more  anxious  care  than  I did.  Nobody 
about  me  knew  or  dreamt  of  it.  The  emi- 
grants who  had  come  from  our  part  of  Ulster 
were  poor  Irish,  and  did  not  come  in  contact 
with  such  young  American  citizens  as  were 
taught  and  boarded  in  the  large  brick  house, 
and  played  in  the  wide,  meadow-like  green  be- 
side the  river  which  constituted  the  grounds 
and  premises  of  Morton’s  Grammar  - school. 
Melrose  had  forgotten  that  I ever  told  him,  that 
was  clear  to  me,  though  his  look  at  the  time 
was  queer  to  remember,  and  always  recurred 
in  my  bad  dreams,  which  were  sure  to  go  back 
to  that  Sunday  night  and  my  father’s  home- 
coming Well,  the  family  secret  was  dead  and 
buried  in  that  far-,off  country,  with  new  associa- 
tions, and  a world  opening  before  me ; but  these 
graves  of  the  past  never  keep  their  trust  well. 
The  shadows  that  could  come  out  of  that  silent 
background  told  on  my  outward  life;  it  had 
something  to  keep  from  its  public,  something  to 
be  cautious  and  reserved  about.  That  con- 
sciousness made  me  careful  of  my  own  goings 
in  the  slippery  paths  of  youth.  There  were 
pitfalls  on  every  side,  into  some  of  which  my 
brother  must  have  slipped,  and  dragged  his 
family  down  to  ruin.  I was  bound  to  take  care 
of  my  steps,  and  whether  this  conviction  or  my 
form  of  character  kept  me  out  of  harm’s  way,  I 
know  not,  but  I grew  up  a well-conducted  and 
solitary  youth.  At  sixteen  my  education  was 
pronounced  finished.  My  uncle  sent  for  me  to 
his  private  room,  put  me  through  a final  ex- 
amination, declared  himself  satisfied  with  my 
progress,  appointing  me  to  a desk  in  his  own 
counting-house,  with  board  and  a small  salary, 
and  gave  me  a distant  intimation  that  in  pro- 
cess of  time,  and  on  proper  behavior,  I might  he 
elevated  to  the  post  of  junior  partner. 

Of  course  I made  suitable  acknowledgments, 
and  set  myself  to  getting  qualified  for  the  pro- 
motion. Hadn’t  the  grammar-school  boys  felic- 
itated me  on  the  prospect  of  stepping  into  old 
O’Neil’s  shoes?  Had  not  my  uncle  made  me 
sensible  of  the  great  house  he  was  to  found  for 


somebody  to  be  the  head  of  in  his  absence — 
(that  was  the  old  gentleman’s  mode  of  hinting 
at  his  mortality) — and  should  not  I get  over  all 
the  unaccountable  blots  on  my  family  escutcheon 
with  the  name  and  arms  of  O’Neil,  backed  by 
an  unshaken  credit  and  an  extensive  capital  ? 
My  own  honor  and  profit  were  not  the  utmost 
limits  of  those  early  calculations.  The  sister 
whom  death  had  spared  was  also  the  one  of  all 
our  household  to  whom  my  memory  clung.  The 
rest  wrere  too  much  my  seniors,  and  in  their 
own  sorrows  and  sickness,  poor  girls!  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  the  absent  child.  The  cloud 
that  darkened  my  mother’s  mind  made  her  place 
dim  in  my  recollection  too.  But  Rhoda  was 
only  one  year  older  than  myself — my  first  play- 
fellow, the  hardest  to  part  from,  the  longest 
missed,  and  the  most  mindful  of  me.  She  had 
sent  book-marks,  messages,  and  latterly  letters 
in  large  copy-hand,  not  very  well  spelt,  and 
manifestly  written  to  the  dictation  of  Miss  Livy. 
Under  it  she  must  have  grown  a young  woman 
by  this  time,  in  the  end  of  the  solitary  farm- 
house where  I left  her ; but  it  was  still  the  face  of 
a fair  child,  with  large  blue  eyes  and  light  brown 
curls,  that  rose  to  my  remembrance.  Never 
mind  the  ill-spelt  letters;  Rhoda  should  have 
teachers  and  station  when  I became  a merchant ; 
we  would  live  all  our  days  together,  pension  off 
Miss  Livy,  and  do  wonders  for  Melrose  Morton. 

Such  were  the  hopes  that  cheered  me  through 
the  long  day’s  work  at  the  desk  and  the  evening 
life  in  the  boarding-house.  It  was  a retired 
and  select  one,  situated  at  the  end  of  West 
Street,  and  kept  by  an  old  Quaker  lady,  who 
took  in  only  single  gentlemen  of  approved  stead- 
iness, and  none  of  them  under  fifty  except  my- 
self, whom  she  admitted  into  her  mansion,  as  I 
was  given  to  understand,  solely  on  account  of 
my  uncle,  because  he  had  been  with  her  twenty- 
six  years,  and  wished  to  have  me  in  a safe 
house,  otherwise  under  his  eye.  The  single 
men  were  all  merchants  like  himself,  devoted 
heart  and  soul  to  their  warehouses  and  to  noth- 
ing else,  though  some  of  them  did  go  to  church 
on  Sundays.  They  all  remembered  the  War  of 
Independence,  and  believed  a republic  was  the 
thing  for  trade.  They  all  had  their  evening 
papers,  their  glasses  of  hot  rum  and  water,  a 
game  of  backgammon,  and  rubber  of  whist ; 
and  I never  heard  them  talking  of  any  thing 
but  business  and  the  money-market. 

With  that  lively  society  at  home,  my  daily 
work  with  ledgers  and  accounts,  my  immovable 
uncle,  and  no  friend  but  Melrose,  I grew  from 
youth  to  manhood  as  lonely  as  I had  been  at  the 
grammar-school,  and  for  the  same  reasons.  I 
did  not  take  to  gayety  or  worse  ; my  uncle  con- 
sidered company  unfit  for  a man  of  business, 
and  did  not  approve  of  frequenting  theatres.  I 
had  inherited,  with  my  father’s  likeness,  his  hon- 
estly social  and  domestic  character : it  made  me 
feel  the  want  of  home  ties  and  affections,  but  it 
kept  me  out  of  dissipation  such  as  a young  and 
limited  clerk  might  fall  into  in  a growing  com- 
mercial town. 


16 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


Still  I was  always  solitary,  and  often  weary 
of  my  position,  even  of  my  prospects.  Rhoda’s 
letters  became  less  comfort  as  I grew  older  and 
wiser  to  observe  my  sister’s  want  of  genteel  edu- 
cation and  breeding ; besides,  they  generally 
contained  a good  deal  of  my  grand-aunt’s  ex- 
pectations of  what  I ought  to  do  for  the  family, 
with  sidelong  warnings  against  my  elder  broth- 
er’s sin.  In  this  state  of  unsatisfactory  proba- 
tion I passed  nearly  four  years,  and  obtained 
some  amount  of  the  promised  promotion.  My 
uncle,  to  use  his  own  words,  found  me  capable 
of  business,  and  elevated  me  step  by  step  to  the 
post  of  his  chief  clerk. 

He  did  not  employ  many  hands,  considering 
the  extent  of  his  transactions,  which,  I have 
forgotten  to  mention,  were  principally  with  Le- 
vantine merchants.  He  exported  tobacco  to 
them,  and  imported  their  goods  in  return ; it 
was  a profitable  line  of  business,  and  my  uncle 
did  the  largest  of  it  in  Baltimore.  Yet  there 
were  only  three  in  the  counting-house  besides 
myself,  and  one  of  them  about  this  time — by- 
the-by,  he  was  the  sub  of  all — got  dismissed  for 
coming  too  late  three  times  in  one  week,  and 
was  superseded,  by  a young  man  recently  ar- 
rived in  America,  but  boasting  some  experience 
in  our  department  of  trade.  “ He  has  been 
nearly  five  years  with  the  Palivez,  and  ought  to 
know  something  about  Levantine  business.  I 
understand  his  father  was  in  the  bank  before 
him ; but  he  is  dead,  and  the  young  man  has 
got  two  sisters  to  support,  probably  that  made 
him  think  of  emigration  ; when  the  bank  was 
removed  to  London,  perhaps  they  did  not  want 
Joyce — that  is  the  young  man’s  name,”  said  my 
uncle;  “I  hear  their  business  is  getting  quite 
private  and  aristocratic  under  the  management 
of  old  Palivez’s  daughter;  she  is  a wonderful 
woman,  that.” 

My  uncle  was  beginning  to  take  me  into  con- 
fidence, my  talk  and  conversation  at  the  board- 
ing-house having  given  him  an  opinion  of  my 
discretion.  We  had  dry  chats  occasionally  about 
the  ledgers,  the  clerks,  and  the  warehousemen, 
about  the  mercantile  connections  of  the  firm, 
and  often  about  the  said  Palivez,  or  Palivezi,  as 
in  Greek  fashion  they  should  have  been  called, 
for  they  were  of  the  old  Hellenic  stock,  and  said 
to  be  descended  from  Grecian  princes,  who  held 
sway  on  the  northern  shores  of  the  Euxine  Sea 
before  Tartar  or  Muscovite  had  dominion  there ; 
hut  we  knew  them  only  as  a banking-house 
which  had  done  business  first  in  Novgorod,  then 
in  Amsterdam,  next  in  Dublin,  and,  at  the  time 
of  my  story,  was  finally  established  in  Old  Broad 
Street,  London.  The  bank  had  been  cashing 
bills  and  receiving  letters  of  credit  from  Venice 
before  Constantinople  became  a Turkish  city. 
Ever  since,  in  spite  of  so  many  removals,  its 
credit  had  been  growing  and  its  operations  ex- 
tending under  successive  Palivez,  who  governed 
it  from  father  to  son,  like  a line  of  monarehs, 
till  the  year  1801,  when  its  wealth  and  respon- 
sibility at  once  devolved  upon  a daughter,  the 
last  of  Her  family,  and  generally  acknowledged 


to  be  equal  to  the  best  of  them  in  business  abili- 
ties, for  she  had  virtually  managed  the  concern 
in  the  last  years  of  her  father’s  life.  People 
said  the  man  was  not  incapacitated,  but  chose 
to  half  retire,  either  for  the  purpose  of  giving 
his  daughter  time  to  practice,  or  to  betake  him- 
self strongly  to  the  devotions  and  austerities  of 
the  Greek  Church.  At  all  events,  he  died  in 
1801,  and  the  heiress  signalized  her  accession 
by  removing  the  establishment  to  Old  Broad 
Street,  and,  as  my  uncle  had  remarked,  narrow- 
ing its  operations  to  large  and  very  safe  trans- 
actions with  the  Levant  and  Mediterranean 
towns. 

Our  firm  had  done  business  with  the  house  . 
for  many  a year.  My  uncle  had  a high  report 
of  its  honor  and  liberality — no  other  w’as  ever 
given  of  the  Palivez  in  my  hearing ; unlike 
most  Greek  houses,  they  had  earned  and  main- 
tained a mercantile  character  of  the  first  order, 
and  their  princely  descent  had  not  been  shamed 
by  the  long  line  of  bankers.  The  family  had 
always  been  regarded  as  a kind  of  nobility  even 
in  Dublin.  They  lived  privately,  but  in  consid- 
erable state ; employed  nobody  but  Greeks  in 
their  household  service  ; Jews  or  Russians  form- 
ed the  staple  of  their  retainers  in  the  bank,  but 
they  had  always  kept  a native  clerk  or  two  in 
the  city,  where  they  sojourned,  and  our  new  sub, 
Jeremy  Joyce,  had  been  the  last  of  their  Irish 
employes.  He  was  a small,  harmless,  subdued 
creature,  remarkably  unlike  an  Irishman,  with 
light  yellow  hair  and  a pale  face,  which  would 
have  been  boyishly  handsome  but  for  a pinched, 
sickly,  weak-minded  expression,  which  never 
left  it  under  any  circumstances.  On  the  whole, 
there  was  something  melancholy  about  Joyce, 
as  if  life  had  not  gone  well  with  him  ; a look  of 
being  cowed  and  kept  down  beyond  his  merits, 
and  knowing  there  was  no  use  in  trying  to  bet- 
ter himself.  The  clerks  thought  him  a sort  of 
acquisition,  because  it  was  supposed  he  could 
tell  them  the  peculiarities  of  the  Greek  house, 
regarding  which  two  singular  traditions  had 
floated  out  as  far  as  the  United  States — indeed, 
they  were  known  wherever  the  Palivez’  did  busi- 
ness— one  was  to  the  effect  that  none  of  the 
family  ever  survived  beyond  middle  life ; fifty 
was  said  to  be  the  utmost  limit  any  of  them  had 
reached ; and  the  other  set  forth  that  all  their 
wives  were  brought  from,  and  all  their  daugh- 
ters sent  back  to,  the  ancient  seats  of  the  race  in 
Eastern  Russia.  A man  who  had  been’in  their' 
bank  for  five  years,  and  his  father  before  him, 
might  be  supposed  to  have  got  some  genuine  in- 
formation on  those  curious  subjects ; the  proba- 
bility gave  me,  and  even  my  uncle,  an  interest 
in  Joyce,  but,  to  our  general  disappointment, 
the  little  man,  though  otherwise  obliging  and 
communicative,  could  not  be  got  to  speak  of  the 
Palivez’  except  in  monosyllables.  “Yes,  sir,” 
“no,  sir,” and  “I  am  sure  I don’t  know, ’’were 
the  utmost  that  the  best  aimed  question  could 
extract.  It  was  not  simplicity,  though  quiet 
and  submissive  to  an  extraordinary  degree  for 
a native  of  his  country  ; Joyce  was  keen  to  ob- 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


17 


serve,  shrewd  to  remark,  and  very  dexterous  to 
discover.  The  clerks  agreed  he  had  reasons  for 
keeping  a close  mouth.  My  uncle  said  those 
Eastern  houses  accustomed  their  servants  to  dis- 
cretion, and  Joyce  went  on  like  the  rest  of  the 
counting-house. 

Some  two  months  after  his  settlement,  I was 
taking  a stroll  through  that  oldest  part  of  Balti- 
more which  lies  along  the  harbor,  in  the  cool 
of  the  summer  evening,  when,  in  a narrow 
thoroughfare  called  Wharf  Street,  and  leading 
to  the  water’s  edge,  I saw  two  women  walking 
quickly  before  me.  The  one  was  tall  and  the 
other  little ; the  former  was  talking  in  a high- 
pitched  voice,  and  words  that  sounded  like 
scolding,  and  as  I passed  them  close  to  get  a j 
better  view,  I discovered  that  the  little  one  was 
very  pretty,  but  manifestly  under  rebuke;  while 
the  tall  woman,  besides  being  remarkably  thin 
and  bony,  had  her  whole  countenance  brought 
to  that  peculiar  sharpness  of  edge  popularly 
known  as  hatchet-face ; a pair  of  intensely  black 
eyes,  with  that  indescribable  look  of  wildness  in 
them  always  indicative  of  the  unsound  or  unsafe 
mind,  and  a quantity  of  coarse,  ill-kept  hair  of 
the  same  intense  blackness,  but  getting  sprinkled 
with  gray,  completed  her  most  singular  and  not 
prepossessing  appearance.  Moreover,  she  had 
on  an  old  dingy  gown  with  a couple  of  rents  in 
it,  a cloak  that  had  once  been  red,  but  was  now 
extremely  rusty,  a battered  beaver  hat,  with  a 
broken  feather  in  it ; yet  it  was  my  belief  that 
any  connoisseur  of  female  attire  would  have 
known  that  her  habiliments  had  once  been  fine 
and  fashionable.  Never  did  I see  such  a con- 
trast to  the  gii*l  who  walked  by  her  side  : she 
did  not  look  more  than  sixteen  ; her  small  but 
beautifully  rounded  figure  was  shown  to  ad- 
vantage by  the  nankeen  pelisse ; a young  face, 
fair  and  soft  as  the  finest  waxwork,  with  the  liv- 
ing rose-bloom  on  cheek  and  lip,  her  large  blue 
eyes  cast  down,  and  shaded  by  a flow  of  curls 
that  looked  really  golden  under  a pretty  silk  hat 
and  blue  ribttfns,  spoke  to  my  mind  as  such 
letters  of  recommendation  do  to  most  men,  par- 
ticularly in  their  twenty-first  year. 


CHAPTER  V. 
somebody’s  sister. 

I could  not  help  slackening  my  pace  to  look 
at  the  young  lady  I passed,  thinking  Rhoda  must 
be  something  like  that  girl,  and  wondering  how 
she  got  into  such  company.  The  tall  woman 
had  proceeded  with  her  oration — it  was  of  re- 
proof— and  the  pretty  girl  seemed  to  quail  under 
it ; but  she  also  observed  me.  I saw  her  give 
me  a sly  glance  : it  was  half  curiosity,  half  en- 
couragement. At  the  same  moment,  her  com- 
panion’s attention  was  suddenly  drawn  to  me. 
She  stopped  abruptly,  turned  her  fierce  black 
eyes  upon  me,  and,  unwilling  to  provoke  her 
animadversions,  though  there  Avas  nobody  else 
in  the  street  to  hear  them,  I hurried  on.  It 
was  not  a minute  more  before  I heard  the  steps 
B 


of  the  two  Avomen  still  behind  me,  and  as  we 
were  passing  a tavern  of  the  lower  order,  out 
rushed  a band  of  Danish  sailors  from  St.  Thom- 
as’s, all  drunk  and  in  a grand  quarrel.  Any 
sober  man  Avould  have  been  glad  to  get  out  of 
their  Avay,  and  the  Avomen  seemed  frightened 
out  of  their  senses.  The  elder  uttered  a loud, 
sharp  scream,  and  fled  down  the  street  before 
them  ; the  younger  attempted  to  folloAv,  but  the 
drunken  Danes,  striking  and  shouting  at  each 
other  like  so  many  demons,  were  upon  her,  and, 
in  the  girl’s  terror  — I believe  it  was  nothing 
else — she  ran  to  my  side  and  clung  to  my  arm. 
Ready,  and  perhaps  glad  of  the  chance  of  play- 
ing the  knight-errant  to  so  fair  a damsel,  I dreAV 
j her  into  the  nearest  doonvay,  placed  myself  be- 
tween her  and  the  fighting  sailors,  and  bid  her 
not  to  be  afraid. 

The  Danes  AA-ere  gone  in  an  instant,  but  the 
poor  girl  seemed  almost  fainting.  I Avas  turn- 
ing to  the  tavern  to  get  a glass  of  Avine  for  her, 
Avhcn  she  clung  to  me  once  more  with,  “Oh! 
sir,  don’t  leave  me.  What  has  become  of  my 
sister?” 

“Your  sister?”  said  I,  fairly  taken  by  surprise. 
Did  she  mean  that  terrible  Avoman  ? But  here 
the  sharp  loud  scream  came  up  the  street. 

“Oh!  she  is  in  a fit — she  is  killed!”  cried 
the  poor  little  girl,  still  holding  fast.  I ran  Avith 
her  to  the  spot  from  whence  the  scream  pro- 
ceeded, and  there,  half  sitting,  half  lying  on  a 
door-step,  Avith  a crowd  rapidly  gathering  round 
from  the  neighboring  houses  and  lanes,  and 
evidently  in  a convulsive  fit,  we  found  the  elder 
Avoman.  The  Danes  had  rushed  by  her  Avith- 
out  molesting  her.  “But  Sally  always  takes 
such  fits  Avhen  she  is  frightened.  Oh  ! how  will 
Ave  get  home?  what  shall  Ido?”  and  the  young 
girl  began  to  Avring  her  hands  and  cry,  while  she 
still  clung  to  my  side. 

“ Don’t  be  afraid,”  said  I,  draAving  the  small 
rounded  arm  close  into  mine.  What  man  Avould 
not  have  done  so  in  like  circumstances? 

With  the  help  of  some  of  the  gathering  crowd 
I got  the  Avoman  lifted  from  the  door-step,  called 
a coach,  had  her  placed  in  it,,  handed  in  the 
pretty  girl,  Avho  begged  me  not  to  leave  them, 
and  said  their  lodgings  Avere  in  Charles  Street 
— second  floor.  Of  course  I did  not  leave  tA\’o 
women  in  such  distress,  but  went  home  with 
them  to  Charles  Street,  and' helped  to  get  the 
elder  sister  up  stairs  and  laid  on  her  bed.  The 
convulsions  had  ceased  by  this  time,  and  she 
lay  Avithout  motion  or  consciousness ; but  Avhen 
I offered  to  run  for  a doctor,  the  younger  sister, 
Avho  recovered  her  composure  Avonderfully  now 
that  they  were  safe  at  home,  assured  me  there 
Avas  no  call  for  one.  Sally  always  took  such 
fits  Avhen  she  Avas  frightened  or  surprised,  but 
she  would  soon  come  round.  The  best  thing 
was  to  let  her  lie  still ; doctors  did  her  no  good. 
They  had  tried  a score  of  the  greatest  men  in 
Dublin.  “But,  oh,  sir,  we  will  never  forget 
your  kindness  — never,  never,”  and  she  wiped 
her  large  blue  eyes  and  looked  me  in  the  face. 

“I  did  nothing  but  Avhnt  any  man  ought  to 


18 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


have  done  and  been  happy  to  do,  ” said  I.  “ But 
shouldn’t  you  have  a nurse  or  a doctor?  Have 
you  any  friends  whom  I could  send  to  you?” 

“No,  sir,  we  are  strangers  here;  but  my 
brother  Jeremy  will  soon  be  in,  and  there  is  no 
use  in  getting  doctors  for  Sally.” 

“Your  brother  Jeremy!”  said  I;  “is  your 
name  Joyce  ?”  Notwithstanding  the  pretty  face 
and  the  fashionable  pelisse,  there  was  that  in  the 
girl’s  manner  which  made  me  free  and  easy  as 
with  one’s  inferior.  Her  speech  was  not  that 
of  a gentlewoman,  neither  was  her  air ; and,  in- 
dependent of  the  elder  sister’s  peculiarities,  the 
rooms  to  which  I accompanied  them,  though 
well  enough  furnished  for  a second  floor,  seemed 
in  a chronic  state  of  dust  and  disorder.  Be- 
sides, she  had  a kind  of  resemblance  to  my 
uncle’s  new  clerk ; and  when  she  said,  with  a 
smile  and  a blush,  “Yes,  sir,  that  is  our  name, 
and  I think  I know  yours — are  you  not  Mr. 
O’Neil,  the  great  merchant’s  nephew?” 

I responded,  “I  am,  Miss  Joyce.”  We  were 
growing  very  familiar;  but  the  girl  had  looked 
at  me  so  archly,  I pulled  forward  one  of  the 
dusty  chairs,  and  sat  down  almost  by  her  side. 

“ Oh ! I thought  so,”  she  said,  half  hiding  be- 
hind the  window-curtain;  “Jeremy  told  us  so 
much  about  you.  Was  it  not  wonderful  we 
should  meet  and  be  frightened  by  those  horrid 
sailors  ? I hope  Sally  will  soon  wake  up.  It  is 
dreadful  to  sit  here  alone ; but  I have  to  sit  so 
many  an  evening.” 

“Shall  I tell  the  landlady  to  come  up?” 
There  was  something  that  inwardly  warned  me 
to  say  so  at  that  moment,  and  get  home  as  soon 
as  I could. 

“Oh  no,”  said  Miss  Joyce,  “not  for  the 
world.  She  is  so  old  and  cross.” 

I couldn’t  go  just  then,  and  I shook  the  warn- 
ing off  my  mind.  It  was  no  harm  to  sit  with  a 
pretty  girl  in  such  trying  circumstances,  so  we 
sat  and  talked.  She  told  me  about  her  brother 
Jeremy,  what  a dear  good  brother  he  was,  and 
their  only  support ; how  they  had  lived  in  Dub- 
lin, and  had  been  very  happy  while  father  and  he 
were  in  Palivez’  bank ; but  they  did  not  save 
much — only  just  a little  fortune  for  her.  Jere- 
my had  put  it  away  in  some  American  bank  till 
she  was  married,  and  she  did  not  know  when 
that  would  happen — perhaps  never.  She  didn’t 
see  any  body  she  liked  yet.  There  was  a cap- 
tain who  paid  her  attentions  in  Dublin,  but  they 
had  to  go  away  when  the  bank  was  removed  ; 
and  Sally  and  Jeremy  would  go  to  America,  be- 
cause Madame  advised  them.  She  didn’t  like 
that  Madame  Palivez.  No  doubt  I did  my  part 
in  the  conversation,  and  took  the  opportunity  to 
say  some  acceptable  things  as  to  the  certainty 
of  her  getting  married,  the  captain  showing  his 
good  taste,  and  my  own  satisfaction  with  Sally 
and  Jeremy  for  bringing  her  to  Baltimore.  But 
just  as  I was  repeating  that  statement  for  the 
third  time,  and  she  declaring  that  men  did  noth- 
ing but  fib  and  flatter,  there  came  a shrill  shout 
from  the  adjoining  room  of  “ Who  are  you  gig- 
gling with  there,  Rosanna?” 


The  elder  sister  had  evidently  woke  up.  Ro- 
sanna flew  in,  and  shut  the  door  so  tightly  that 
I could  hear  nothing  but  a querulous  whisper ; 
but  in  a minute  or  two  she  came  out  looking 
very  red,  and  saying,  “Sally  sent  her  compli- 
ments; she  would  never  forget  my  uncommon 
kindness.  If  Jeremy  was  at  home  he  would 
thank  me  too  ; she  didn’t  know  what  kept  him, 
but  it  was  growing  very  late.” 

I took  the  hint  to  take  my  departure,  with 
many  assurances  that  I had  done  nothing,  and 
a kind  shake-hands  with  Rosanna.  How  soft 
and  fair  her  hand  was,  and  how  it  seemed  to 
rest  in  mine ! With  a second  leave-taking  at 
the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  a declaration  that  Sal- 
ly would  be  very  glad  to  see  me  when  she  was 
well  enough  and  could  sit  by,  I went  home  to 
my  uncle’s  boarding-house. 

How  dull  and  frowsy  the  evening  papers,  the 
glasses  of  hot  rum  and  water,  and  the  company 
of  old  bachelor  merchants  looked  ! The  disor- 
derly second  floor,  the  queer,  sharp-faced,  sharp- 
tongued  elder  sister  were  not  inviting  objects ; 
but  the  pretty  face  and  figure  of  little  Rosanna 
— the  girl  who  had  sought  my  protection,  and 
clung  to  me  in  her  terror ; who  blushed  and 
smiled  when  I spoke  ; who  talked,  it  seemed,  so 
artlessly,  and  had  so  much  to  be  sympathized 
with — had  opened  one  of  those  windows  of  life 
which  looked  into  the  fresh  green  world  of 
youthful  fancy  and  feeling  for  me,  and  I could 
neither  shut  nor  turn  my  eyes  away  from  ii.  In 
the  counting-house  and  at  the  ledger,  among 
the  evening  papers,  in  the  midst  of  my  uncle’s 
dry  chat,  I was  thinking  of  the  second  floor  in 
Charles  Street. 

Jeremy  became  an  object  of  great  interest  to 
me  now,  though  he  could  tell  nothing  about  the 
Palivez.  The  poor  fellow  thanked  me  with 
most  sincere-looking  gratitude  for  my  kindness 
to  his  sisters.  Sally  was  troubled  with  fits,  and 
a little  peculiar  ; but  she  had  been  a mother  to 
him  and  to  Rosanna,  and  she  would  be  delight- 
ed to  see  and  thank  me  any  time  I took  the 
trouble  to  call  at  their  poor  place.  No  wonder 
he  looked  cowed  and  subjugated  under  the 
bringing-up  of  such  a monitress;  and,  by  a few 
judicious  questions,  I also  learned  from  him 
that  Sally  was  their  step-sister,  the  only  child 
of  his  father’s  first  marriage,  and  the  head  of 
the  house  from  her  youth.  “For  you  see,” 
said  Jeremy,  “our  mother  was  an  easy-going 
woman,  and  died  early.” 

I thought  it  but  common  civility  to  call  and 
give  Sally  an  opportunity  of  working  off  her 
gratitude  one  evening  in  the  following  week. 
Rosanna  was  sewing  at  the  window,  with  her 
hair  in  papers;  but  she  saw  me,  and  ran  to 
open  the  street  door.  Sally  was  there,  in  the 
same  old  gown,  with  a cap  to  match,  but  look- 
ing a great  deal  more  composed  than  she  had 
looked  in  Wharf  Street ; and,  in  spite  of  the 
shabby  attire,  and  dusty,  littered  room,  there 
was  a strong  appearance  of  the  broken-down 
gentlewoman  about  her  manner,  and  even  in 
the  profuse  acknowledgments  she  made  me  for 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


19 


the  trouble  I had  taken.  She  was  sensible  of 
my  kindness,  and  very  sorry  for  giving  so  much 
annoyance  with  her  unfortunate  nerves,  but  they 
had  been  shaken  by  severe  and  early  trials,  and 
she  rarely  went  out  on  that  account. 

We  talked  for  some  time  in  a similar  strain, 
I depreciating  my  services,  she  exalting  them 
to  the  very  skies.  We  were  both  from  Ireland  ; 
but  Miss  Joyce  had  somehow  got  higher  breed- 
ing than  her  younger  brother  and  sister,  and  in 
the  course  of  our  conversation  she  gave  me  to 
understand,  by  a few  judicious  hints,  that  her 
mother  had  been  a lady,  who  lost  caste  by  mar- 
rying the  Palivez  clerk. 

At  this  point,  Rosanna,  who  had  disappeared 
for  some  minutes,  returned  with  her  curls  in  full 
array,  and  a better  dress  on.  That  was  done 
for  my  reception,  and  the  girl  seemed  half  con- 
scious that  I knew  it.  It  was  a dull  life  for  one 
so  young  and  pretty  to  lead  with  that  queer,  ex- 
citable elder  sister,  in  a second  floor  in  a strange 
town.  They  had  no  friends,  no  acquaintances ; 
Jeremy  was  out  at  his  clerkship  all  day  ; Sally 
rarely  left  the  house  on  account  of  her  nerves, 
and  she  did  not  think  it  proper  for  her  sister  to 
go  out  alone.  They  took  in  plain  sewing  just 
to  employ  their  time  ; not  that  it  was  necessary 
to  them — they  had  saved  something  in  Dublin 
— but  work  kept  people  out  of  mischief.  Sally 
told  me  all  that,  with  a long  sigh  at  the  end  of 
it,  and  Rosanna  looked  down  sorrowfully  at  her 
sewing.  In  a few  minutes  I got  up  to  her  side ; 
it  was  to  see  a remarkable  bird  in  a cage  at  the 
opposite  window,  and  there  I sat  talking  with 
the  two  sisters  about  the  difference  between 
America  and  the  old  country  we  had  left.  They 
knew  me  now  to  be  Mr.  La  Touche ; perhaps 
they  knew  the  worst  part  of  my  family  history 
— the  Palivez  and  all  their  establishment  had 
been  inquired  at  in  the  search  for  Raymond — 
and  I enlightened  them  on  my  mercantile  pros- 
pects, and  my  determination  to  remain  and  be 
my  uncle’s  heir  and  successor  in  Baltimore. 
Sally  did  the  most  of  th#  responding,  while  she 
sewed  on ; Rosanna  listened  and  made  believe 
to  sew  till  the  daylight  left  us  — there  is  little 
twilight  in  those  Western  skies,  but  I sat  with 
them  till  Jeremy  came  in.  Poor  fellow!  he 
seemed  overwhelmed  with  the  honor  of  my  visit. 
I was  earnestly  entreated  to  come  back  and  see 
them  by  the  tongue  of  the  one  sister  and  the 
eyes  of  the  other,  and  went  home  feeling  that 
life  had  a pole-star  for  me  to  steer  by,  and  its 
place  was  the  second  floor  in  Charles  Street. 

What  need  of  telling  all  the  particulars  at  full 
length  ? I went  back  to  see  them  evening  after 
evening : at  first  it  was  once,  then  twice,  theft 
three  times  a week.  I was  pressed  to  stay  for 
tea,  and  I staid  ; the  rooms  grew  less  dusty,  less 
littered  to  my  eyes.  Sally  seemed  less  disturbed, 
Jeremy  less  overruled  ; if  Rosanna’s  hair  hap- 
pened to  be  in  papers,  and  her  soiled  dress  on, 
those  disadvantages  were  speedily  removed  at 
my  advent.  It  was  far  pleasanter  there  than 
among  the  evening  papers  and  the  steaming 
pu»ch.  Odd  as  the  family  seemed  to  be,  they 


were  all  Irish,  and  could  laugh  and  make  mer- 
ry ; at  times,  even  Sally  did  her  share  in  telling 
old  Dublin  anecdotes  and  doings  which  she  re- 
membered when  the  Duke  of  Leinster  was  lord 
lieutenant.  I have  said  that  she  was  singularly 
genteel  compared  with  the  brother  and  sister : 
her  presiding  at  the  tea-table  reminded  me  of  my 
own  mother,  unlike  as  they  were ; and  though 
the  Joyces  were  not  particular  in  matters  of  do- 
mestic order,  they  had  evidently  larger  means 
than  one  could  have  expected  from  the  brother’s 
position.  I need  not  say  that  my  chief  attrac- 
tion to  their  society  was  neither  Jeremy  nor  his 
elder  sister.  I don’t  think  it  was  altogether 
Rosanna’s  pretty  face  ; but  there  was  a dancing 
light  in  her  blue  eyes  which  told  of  joy  and 
gladness  at  my  coming — there  was  the  ever- 
changing  color  and  the  irrepressible  smile  an- 
swering to  all  my  words  and  looks.  The  girl 
loved  me  — I got  convinced  of  that ; maybe  it 
was  easily  done  ; but  no  glance,  no  word  of  af- 
fection had  reached  me  since  I came  a stranger 
to  Baltimore  in  my  seventh  year.  Melrose  Mor- 
ton had  been  kind  to  my  desolate  childhood, 
and  we  were  friends  still ; but  the  difference  of 
our  characters,  more  than  that  of  years,  made 
it  an  unequal  friendship,  like  that  between  the 
man  and  the  boy.  Besides,  he  had  his  home 
and  his  mother,  his  love  of  study,  and  a natural 
reserve  which  I could  never  break  through. 

Here  was  a young,  artless,  beautiful  girl,  as 
lonely  as  myself — rather  worse  situated,  for  she 
was  a woman — and  turning  to  me  with  all  the 
unchilled,  unmixed  affection  of  her  nature.  I 
had  a heart  to  give  away  in  those  days,  one 
which  nobody  had  claimed  or  valued  till  she 
came  in  my  way.  Was  it  strange  that  I took 
to  the  second  floor,  that  I became  the  family 
friend,  that  I paid  marked  attentions,  that  I 
asked  and  obtained  leave  to  take  Rosanna  out 
for  walks,  to  lectures,  to  theatres,  to  concerts 
that  came  off  in  the  evening  — for  I had  no 
other  time  ? In  looking  back  now,  it  becomes 
visible  to  me  that  the  younger  sister  and  I were 
a good  deal  left  together;  that  frequent  hints 
of  exalted  relationship  and  high  expectations 
were  given ; that  there  was  no  expense  spared 
in  dress  and  other  provisions  for  my  coming; 
but,  at  the  time,  the  frank  innocence  of  Rosan- 
na’s talk,  her  utter  ignorance  of  the  world,  her 
evident  trust  in  me,  and  simple  delight  in  every 
amusement  I found  for  her,  charmed  me  as  I 
had  never  been  charmed  before.  It  was  true 
that  she  could  scarcely  read,  and  wrote  very 
badly;  that  she  spoke  in  defiance  of  all  gram- 
mar, and  had  to  be  told  about  proprieties  of 
table  by  her  superintending  sister ; but  she 
pleased  me  to  the  heart,  as  the  old  song  has  it, 
and  I had  great  dreams  of  making  her  a lady. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
melrose  morton’s  advice. 

As  a thunder-cloud  comes  over  the  summer 
sky,  those  dreams  were  crossed  at  times  by  the 


20 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


f 


thought  of  what  my  uncle  would  say  on  the  sub- 
ject if  it  came  to  his  knowledge.  To  expect  that 
he  would  countenance,  or  even  tolerate,  such  a 
connection  for  his  intended  heir  and  successor 
was  beyond  the  force  of  my  imagination  ; yet 
on  that  heir  and  successorship  the  castle  of  my 
hope  was  built.  Thereby  our  family  status  was 
to  be  regained,  my  sister  was  to  be  rescued  from 
, the  lonely  farm-house,  my  once  kindly  but  now 
terrible  grand-aunt  was  to  be  set  aside  and  pro- 
vided for,  and  the  transmutation  of  Rosanna 
into  a gentlewoman  was  to  be  effected.  I knew 
myself  to  be  acting  unw’isely  from  the  begin- 
ning ; the  two  schemes  were  inconsistent,  and 
could  never  be  made  to  harmonize.  Many  an 
endeavor  I made  to  break  the  spell  — perhaps 
they  wrere  not  made  soon  enough — but  the  soft 
blue  eyes  drew  me  on,  and  I was  lonely  in  life. 
My  comings  and  goings  to  Charles  Street  were 
managed  with  great  circumspection,  however ; 
it  was  necessary  to  keep  the  affair  from  my  un- 
cle ; and,  friends  though  we  had  been  for  many 
a year,  I felt  a sort  of  necessity  to  keep  it  from 
Melrose  Morton  too.  He  had  always  preached 
prudence  and  worldly  wisdom  to  me,  as  became 
his  seniority.  He  had  known  or  guessed  my 
prospects  in  the  heir  and  successor  line  from 
my  first  coming  to  the  grammar-school,  and 
that  unexplained  knowledge  of  myAmily  secret 
somehow  helped  to  make  me  shy  about  con- 
fiding the  secret  of  my  heart  to  him.  He  had 
nothing  of  the  kind  himself,  as  far  as  I could 
learn — no  friends,  scarcely  an  acquaintance  but 
me.  Melrose  led  a student’s  life,  though  it  was 
also  that  of  a teacher ; but  he  had  his  home 
and  his  mother,  and  I had  nothing  but  the  even- 
ing papers  and  the  dry  chats.  I kept  my  se- 
cret from  him  ; but  before  the  first  year  of  go- 
ing to  Charles  Street  was  out,  Melrose  knew  it. 
He  had  asked  me  to.  accompany  him  to  the  Bal- 
timore Theatre  one  Saturday  evening ; it  was 
to  see  a new  star  from  England — somebody  who 
was  to  eclipse  Mrs.  Siddons,  but  did  not.  I had 
made  a prospective  apology  to  Rosanna  for  not 
taking  her.  She  had  looked  mortified,  but  said 
she  would  coax  Jeremy ; he  was  always  kind, 
only  Sally  had  to  go  out  with  them  ; and  when 
we  had  got  ourselves  squeezed  into  the  crowded 
gallery — Melrose  would  pay  for  no  better  seat 
at  a play — there  they  were  in  the  pit  below,  and 
so  seated  that  I could  not  help  seeing  them. 
Rosanna  looked  and  smiled  at  me  ; I had  made 
up  my  prudent  mind  not  to  know  her,  but  it 
seemed  unmanly,  and  could  not  be  done. 

“*There  is  a pretty  girl,  Melrose !”  I ex- 
claimed, taking  courage  from  my  position 
among  the  Baltimore  mob ; but  he  had  sur- 
veyed the  group  before  the  words  were  spoken. 

“ She  is  pretty,”  he  said  ; “ the  sister  of  your 
uncle’s  third  clerk,  I believe.” 

“You  know  them,  then?” 

I felt  my  own  color  rising. 

“I  know  who  they  are — a family  of  the  name 
of  Joyce,  from  Dublin.  What  a singular-look- 
ing womap  that  elder  sister  is!  Not  quite  clear 
in  her  mind,  I should  think.  They'  say  her 


mother  was  a Jewess,  a daughter  of  old  Reu- 
bens, the  noted  morfey-lender ; and  there  was  a 
story  concerning  her  and  one  of  the  Palivez, 
the  present  Madame’s  uncle ; he  was  the  elder 
brother  and  head  of  the  house  before  her  father, 
and  is  gone  this  many  a year ; but  old  Joyce 
married  the  Jewess  a considerable  time  before 
his  death.  They  said  an  annuity  had  been  set- 
tled on  her  and  her  children,  and  I can't  im- 
agine what  has  brought  the  family  here.” 

Melrose  was  trying  to  talk  unconcernedly, 
and  retail  the  gossip  he  had  heard ; but  I knew 
that  every  word  was  meant  for  my  special  ad- 
monition— another  oozing-out  of  his  long-hid- 
den knowledge  of  Dublin  matters  and  my  family 
misfortunes.  The  name  of  Reubens,  the  Jew 
and  the  money-lender,  -with  whom  my  father 
had  taken  that  fatal  mortgage  on  the  wridowr’s 
houses,  was  graven  on  my  memory.  1 knew 
him  to  be  long  dead.  There  was  also  an  ex- 
planation of  the  Joyces’  expenditure — perhaps 
of  why  Madame  advised  their  emigration  ; but 
the  story  did  not  cling  about  Rosanna  — her 
mother  was  no  Jewess. 

“That  must  have  been  Joyce’s  first  wife,” 
said  I,  gossiping  in  my  turn ; “I  understand  he 
had  two,  and  neither  the  brother  nor  the  youn- 
ger sister  appear  to  have  Jewish  blood  in  their 
veins.” 

“Oh  yes,  he  married  a second  time;  the 
Jewess  did  not  live  long.  He  got  no  annuity 
nor  discreditable  tale,  that  I am  aware  of,  with 
the  second  Mrs.  Joyce.  She  was  a clear-starch- 
er’s  daughter,  and  had  a terrible  time  of  it  with 
her  step-child— that  wonderful-looking  woman, 
who  superintends  the  family  still,  I suppo^. 
The  young  girl  is  pretty,” said  Melrose,  “but 
it  is  with  the  beauty  of  the  pet  squirrel  or  the 
lap-dog — there  is  no  mind,  no  spirit  in  her  face. 
Whatever  that  girl  is  guided  and  led  to  be,  she 
will  be,  and  nothing  more  ; if  well  guided,  so 
much  the  better  for  herself  and  all  concerned 
with  her;  but,  Lucien,  in  a world  like  this  there 
are  ten  thousand  charfces  of  her  being  led  the 
contrary  way,  particularly  under  her  family  cir- 
cumstances ; and,  let  me  tell  you,  those  waxy 
characters  are  much  easier  to  send  wrong  than 
set  right.” 

“You  have  been  studying  her,  Melrose.” 

I was  endeavoring  to  sneer,  for  my  wrath  was 
boiling  up  against  his  concealed  censorship,  and 
in  defense  of  my  depreciated  idol. 

My  looks  must  have  told  Melrose  more  than 
I intended,  for  he  made  no  reply,  and  the  sub- 
ject was  tacitly  dropped  between  us  as  the  cur- 
tain rose.  The  play  proceeded,  and  the  star 
th one  out. 

In  our  subsequent  meetings,  no  reference  was 
made  to  the  Joyces  by  either  party.  I am  not 
sure  that  my  visits  to  Charles  Street  did  not  be- 
come more  frequent,  by  way  of  convincing  my- 
self that  Morton’s  insinuations  were  groundless, 
and  Rosanna  was  the  only  woman  I could  ever 
love.  I had  not  clearly  understood  his  drift  in 
those  comments  on  her  and  her  family ; the 
tone  of  them  had  displeased  me — they  implied 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


21 


knowledge  of  my  movements,  of  all  connected 
with  me  and  mine,  and  watch  over  the  same,  to 
which  Melrose  had  no  right.  The  friendship 
cooled  on  my  side ; he  took  no  measures  to 
warm  it  up,  and  latterly  we  rather  avoided  each 
other,  which  our  different  avocations  enabled  us 
to  do  without  any  visible  rupture. 

Almost  another  year  had  passed  away. 
Charles  Street  had  become  one  of  the  institu- 
tions of  my  life.  I had  ceased  to  wonder  and 
rejoice  at  my  own  dexterity  in  avoiding  my  un- 
cle’s observation.  Melrose,  I well  knew,  would 
never  play  the  tale-bearer  under  or  above  board ; 
and  knowing  the  business  was  to  be  a long  one, 
and  myself  master  of  the  situation,  I managed 
it  with  care  and  caution.  There  had  been 
small  tiffs  between  Rosanna  and  me  — little 
suspicions,  short-lived  jealousies,  accusations  of 
not  caring  for  her,  tears,  protestations,  vows, 
reconciliations,  and  smiles  again ; in  short,  all 
the  usual  accompaniments  of  a prolonged  and 
hidden  courtship ; and  in  the  latest  of  our  mak- 
ings-up  we  contrived  to  get  formally  engaged. 

It  was  the  only  way  to  quiet  her  jealous  fears, 
to  assure  my  own  conscience  that  I was  acting 
right  by  the  girl,  and  to  settle  Sally’s  mind, 
which,  by  hints  to  myself,  and  by  open  attacks 
on  her  younger -sister,  had  proved  itself  rather 
disturbed  of  late  on  the  subject  of  my  intentions. 
The  engagement  had  been  made  in  the  usual 
form,  with  exchange  of  vows  and  rings.  I have 
kept  my  part  of  the  latter  till  this  day.  There 
were  locks  of  hair  also  given  and  taken  ; and 
the  whole  was  transacted  one  sfimmer  evening, 
when  we  walked  together  in  our  accustomed 
pjtth  leading  through  the  fields  to  North  Point, 
where  they  fought  a battle  since.  The  business 
was  done,  and  I regarded  it  as  a new  bond  to 
look  after  my  prospects.  My  uncle  was  uncom- 
monly busy  that  season ; he  was  getting  into 
the  London  as  well  as  the  Levantine  trade,  and 
I was  making  myself  more  than  commonly  use- 
ful. We  had  not  a dry  chat  for  some  time  ; but 
when  he  sent  a request  -to  see  me  in  his  pri- 
vate room,  I thought  a particular  one  must  be 
intended. 

0.  ‘-‘Sit  down,  Lucien,”  said  her  pointing  to  a 
seat  right  opposite  to  him,  and  a table  without 
letter  or  paper  on  it  stood  between  us.  “You 
have  reached  an  age  which  takes  a young  man 
out  of  guardianship,  but  I think  it  my  right,  as 
well  as  my  duty,  to  warn  you  that  you  are  fol- 
lowing a dangerous  course  with  regard  to  my 
clerk  Jeremy  Joyce’s  sister;  no  man  should 
trust  himself  too  far,  and  I could  not  overlook 
such  a crime  as  seduction.” 

“Seduction,  sir!”  said  I,  all  the  honor  and 
conscience  I had  rising  to  the  defense  of  my 
own  innocence. 

“Yes,”  said  my  uncle,  coldly;  “what  else 
would  the  world  expect  from  your  intimacy 
with  a girl  in  her  position — I may  say,  of  her 
appearance  ? what  else  will  it  infer,  whether  it 
get  proof  or  not?  Remember  that  a woman’s 
reputation  may  be  equally  destroyed  by  suspi- 
cion as  by  positive  evidence.  Besides,  Lucien, 


what  intentions  have  you  in  keeping  the  girl’s 
company  ?” 

“ No  evil  ones,  sir,  I assure  you.” 

“Do  you  mean  to  marry  her,  then  ?” 

“I  do — that  is,  in  process  of  time,  when  I 
have  made  my  way  in  the  world,  and  can  main- 
tain a wife.” 

“You  mean  to  marry  the  sister  of  my  under 
clerk,  a girl  without  fortune,  family,  or  educa- 
tion.” My  uncle  spoke  calmly,  but  with  a cold 
emphasis  on  every  word,  which  roused  all  the 
man  in  me.  We  were  of  the  same  blood ; I 
looked  him  steadily  in  the  face  and  answered, 

“Yes,  sir,  I mean  to  marry  Rosanna  Joyce.” 

“Well,  every  man  has  a right  to  choose  for 
himself  in  such  matters/’ he  said,  with  the  same 
business-like  composure.  “I  think  your  resolu- 
tion to  provide  for  a home  and  a wife  before 
you  incur  such  responsibilities  both  prudent  and 
praiseworthy.  Of  course  it  would  be  pleasant 
to  neither  of  us  that  you  should  remain  here ; 
when  relations  happen  to  differ  in  opinion  on 
personal  questions,  distance  is  always  advisable ; 
but  it  is  fortunately  in  my  powe*  to  offer  you  a 
situation  which  may  be  acceptable  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. The  business  arrangements  which 
I have  lately  made  with  the  Palivez  in  London 
render  it  necessary  for  me  to  keep  an  agent  resi- 
dent in  their  establishment,  and  as  you  have 
some  experience,  I shall  be  happy  to  give  you 
the  appointment,  should  it  meet  your  views.” 

Being  unprejudiced  in  his  favor,  I never  could 
decide  whether  my  uncle’s  morality  arose  from 
principle,  pride,  or  prudence  ; but  strictly  moral 
he  was  in  precept  and  practice.  I knew  that 
an  offense  against  virtue,  such  as  he  had  named, 
would  draw  down  his  most  signal  displeasure. 
I was  also  aware,  though  he  had  never  said  it, 
that  to  marry  a girl  without  family,  fortune,  or 
education  was  in  his  eyes  a crime  of  far  deeper 
dye  ; yet  his  quiet  and  coolness  on  the  occasion 
fairly  took  me  by  surprise.  He  must  have 
made  some  discovery,  either  from  Jeremy  or 
his  own  observation  ; kept  a silent  watch  on  the 
visits  which  I managed  so  dexterously,  settled 
the  whole  affair  in  his  mind,  and  prepared  him- 
self for  my  final  decision.  However  he  did  it, 
the  old  gentleman  was  far  better  prepared  than  I. 
An  explosion  of  wrath  would  not  have  thrown 
me  half  so  far  out  of  the  game ; my  heir  and 
successorship,  the  prospects  on  which  I had  been 
congratulated,  and,  as  it  were,  built  up  from  my 
first  coming  to  the  grammar-school,  all  shoved 
quietly  away  from  me  with  nothing  like  a dem- 
onstration, and  I left  no  alternative  but  to  move 
far  away  from  Rosanna,  or  make  public  ac- 
knowledgment of  my  altered  position  by  look- 
ing for  a situation  in  Baltimore,  which  would 
be  somewhat  difficult  to  find,  as  I had  no  knowl- 
edge of  any  thing  but  my  uncle’s  peculiar  line 
of  business.  In  the  astonishment  and  confusion 
of  the  moment,  I could  get  out  nothing  but  that 
I would  think  of  it. 

“Make  up  your  mind,  then, before  Saturday,” 
said  my  uncle,  looking  as  if  he  spoke  of  a ship- 
ment of  goods  ; “ it  is  requisite  to  have  the  ap- 


22 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


pointment  filled  up  at  once ; my  agent  must  be 
ready  to  sail  on  the  first  of  October ; you  observe 
this  day  is  the  second  of  September,  and  I forgot 
to  mention  that  the  salary  is  a thousand  dollars, 
exclusive  of  expenses,  and  will  be  increased  ac- 
cording to  duties  and  desert.  Good-morning. 
I will  expect  your  decision  on  Saturday.” 

I rose  with  a silent  bow  and  left  the  private 
room. 

That  day  was  Wednesday ; I had  three  days 
to  decide,  arid  not  a month  to  prepare  for  a part- 
ing with  Rosanna,  a voyage  across  the  Atlantic, 
a residence  in  a strange  land,  and  a getting  into 
a new  course  of  life. 

Had  my  uncle  contrived  the  whole  only  to 
send  me  away  from  her  and  break  up  the  con- 
nection if  time  and  absence  could  do  it,  or  did 
he  really  intend  to  cast  me  off  and  find  another 
heir?  Eoolish  pride  and  natural  obstinacy 
prompted  me  to  stay  and  look  for  another  sit- 
uation, by  way  of  spiting  him  and  remaining 
near  Rosanna;  but  wiser  resolutions  came  as  I 
thought  over  the  matter : let  my  uncle  intend 
what  he  would,  it  was  the  more  prudent,  the 
more  manly  course  to  accept  the  offered  appoint- 
ment, and  prove  myself  worthy  of  the  choice  I 
had  made  by  working  honestly  and  independ- 
ently for  it. 

Early  desolation  and  strangership  had  taught 
me  to  be  my  own  adviser.  Melrose  Morton 
had  lost  caste  with  me  since  the  observations  he 
made  at  the  theatre ; yet  the  kindness  he  had 
shown  me,  and  the  respect  I had  for  him,  ren- 
dered a disclosure  requisite.  I told  him  all,  in 
a walk  we  took  for  the  purpose  up  the  river’s 
bank,  where  we  used  to  Avalk  in  school-time. 
He  listened  without  a word ; but  there  was  a 
look  of  painful  memory  or  concern  in  his  face, 
like  that  of  the  day  when  he  warned  me  not  to 
speak  of  my  lost  brother,  and  at  the  close  he 
said,  “Lucien,  are  you  really  determined  to  mar- 
ry the  girl  ? Is  there  any  promise  or  engage- 
ment between  her  and  you  ?” 

I felt  my  own  face  growing  very  red  — being 
yet  honest  and  not  twenty-three — as  I answer- 
ed, “Yes,  I am  really  determined;  Rosanna  is 
the  only  woman  I can  ever  love ; I believe  she 
loves  me,  and  we  are  engaged.” 

Melrose  looked  at  me  as  if  I had  been  an- 
nouncing my  determination  to  sail  in  a con- 
demned ship,  but  said,  with  his  accustomed  kind- 
ness, “ Well,  it  is  a very  good  chance,  this  of- 
fer of  your  uncle:  his  agency  in  London  may 
be  a valuable  situation  in  the  course  of  time, 
and  make  you  independent  of  him  and  every 
body  else.  Absence,  they  say,  is  the  strongest 
test  of  affection ; you  will  see  more  of  the  world, 
and  Rosanna  will  grow  older  and  wiser  as  well 
as  yourself.” 

The  rest  of  his  talk  was  in  the  same  strain, 
kindly,  sensible,  and  encouraging,  as  I always 
found  it,  except  on  that  night  at  the  play ; it 
confirmed  my  resolution  to  decide  in  the  affirm- 
ative, and  on  Friday  morning  that  fact  was  com- 
municated to  my  uncle  with  the  best  grace  I 
could  assume. 


“Very  well, ’’said  he,  without  looking  up  from 
the  prices  current;  “you  will  be  ready  to  sail 
on  the  first  of  October  with  the  ‘ Franklin,  ’ a 
capital  vessel,  I understand.” 

The  last  part  of  the  settlement  was  telling 
it  to  Rosanna.  I never  looked  to  her  for  coun- 
sel or  assistance  in  any  difficulty,  and  I dreaded 
the  consequences  of  the  disclosure  too  much  to 
enter  on  it  hastily.  When  all  was  arranged 
and  I must  go,  I told  her  the  true  state  of  the 
case ; how  I had  lost  my  uncle’s  favor,  and  prob- 
ably would,  never  be  his  heir,  but  should  remain 
faithful  and  constant  to  her  in  spite  of  time  and 
distance ; should  work  and  save  to  get  a com- 
fortable house  for  her  in  London,  and  come 
some  day  to  marry  and  take  her  home  to  it. 

It  was  a sore  trial  to  see  my  poor  girl’s  grief 
— how  she  wept,  and  clung  to  me,  and  cried 
what  would  become  of  her  when  I wras  gone.  I 
got  her  soothed  at  last ; we  exchanged  vows 
once  more,  promised  never  to  forget,  and  al- 
ways write  to  each  other : I did  the  most  of  the 
promising,  for  she  was  jealous  of  the  London 
ladies,  and  my  thinking  small  of  her  when  I 
saw  their  finery  and  riches.  That  happened  in 
our  meeting-place  under  the  Sheltering  maples 
in  Grove  Lane ; but  there  wTas  a far  more  noisy 
scene  at  home  on  my  next  visit,  when  Sally 
worked  herself  into  a fit,  with  the  certainty  that 
men  were  all  deceivers ; that  I was  going  away 
to  get  off  with  my  engagement ; that  her  sis- 
ter’s heart  would  be  broken,  and  their  family 
disgraced  before  all  Baltimore.  She,  too,  was 
quieted  at  last,  but  not  till  our  engagement  was 
solemnly  renewed  in  her  presence.  She  had 
required  either  an  immediate  wedding  or  a di- 
rect breaking  off;  but  the  impropriety  of  the 
first  being  proved  to  her,  and  the  second  being 
utterly  refused,  we  got  her  settled  on  the  renew- 
al, with  the  help  of  brother  Jeremy. 

There  were  similar  demonstrations,  but  of 
less  intensity,  under  the  maples  and  in  the  sec- 
ond floor ; they  passed,  however,  Avith  the  days; 

I made  my  preparations,  strong  in  hope  and  in 
the  faith  of  that  first  love.  It  was  hard  to  part 
with  Rosanna ; but  I was  going  to  do  a man’s 
duty,  and  fill  a man’s  place  in  the  Avorld — to  be% 
no  longer  a dependent^and  a waiter  on  an  old 
man’s  will.  Let  me  acknowledge  it  was  no 
hardship  to  leave  her  elder  sister  behind  me, 
yet  my  own  tears  fell  fast  when  I clasped  the 
weeping  girl  to  my  heart  for  the  last  time,  un- 
der the  green  maple  ; we  had  chosen  to  part  in 
that  trysting-spot,  in  the  soft  summer  evening, 
and  she  sobbed  out,  “Lucien,  dear  Lucien, 
don’t  forsake  me  for  one  of  the  fine  London  la- 
dies.” 

Melrose  Morton  would  see  me  on  board  the 
“Franklin.”  My  uncle  had  bid  me  good-by 
before  he  went  to  his  counting-house  that  morn- 
ing, and  hoped  I would  have  a pleasant  voyage. 

It  proved  to  be  a long  one,  even  for  that  period, 
but  I do  not  intend  to  relate  its  incidents.  Ad- 
ventures there  were  none ; but  we  were  out 
nearly  three  months,  being  detained  by  eon- 
I trarv  winds,  and  I arrived  safe  in  London,  with 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


23 


letters  of  introduction  to  the  house  of  Palivez, 
and  full  powers  of  agency,  but  too  late  to  enter 
on  business  till  the  festival  was  over,  so  it  hap- 
pened that  I sat  in  the  corner  of  the  coffee-room, 
and  heard  my  own  family’s  woeful  history  told 
to  a stranger  that  Ghristmas-day. 

When  I could  think  over  it  no  more,  and  aft- 
ernoon customers  began  to  drop  in  — they  were 
mostly  Russians  or  Eastern  men  who  frequented 
that  old-fashioned  coffee-house  — when  the  fog 
deepened  into  that  early  night  which  falls  upon 
London  in  its  great  pudding- time,  I rose  and 
retired  to  the  family  hotel  in  Finsbury  Place, 


my  good  hope  of  getting  on  in  London,  and  my 
unchanging  memory  of  her,  in  spite  of  my  un- 
cle’s disfavor  and  the  parting  sea. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  BANKER-LADY. 

Old  Broad  Street,  where  so  much  Eastern 
business  is  still  done,  and  Greek  names  may  be 
read  on  every  door,  as  they  have  been  since 
Elizabeth’s  time,  looked  much  the  same  when  I 


We  had  chosen  to  part  in  that  trysting-spot. 


which  my  uncle  had  assigned  for  my  rest,  be- 
cause it  was  kept  bv  a correspondent  of  the 
Quaker  lady  in  Baltimore.  There  I had  my 
solitary  Christmas  dinner,  and  wrote  a long  let- 
ter to  Rosanna,  to  assure  her  of  my  safe  arrival, 


pulled  the  porter’s  bell  at  a building  which  then 
stood  opposite  Gresham  House,  and  was  known 
to  all  City  men  as  Palivez’  Bank.  The  prem- 
ises have  been  taken  down  and  remodeled  so 
I that  their  former  occupants  would  not  recognize 


24 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


them  ; hut  at  the  time  of  my  story,  though  pre- 
senting an  English  front  with  bank  office  and 
chambers  properly  windowed  to  the  public  of 
Old  Broad  Street,  the  central  and  rearward  parts 
remained  much  as  they  had  been  constructed  by 
the  original  owner,  a wealthy  Jew,  who  had  the 
good  fortune  to  remove  from  Granada  in  the 
days  of  Philip  the  Second,  while  the  edict  of 
banishment  against  all  his  race  was  yet  brew- 
ing in  the  mind  of  the  Catholic  king  and  his 
priestly  advisers.  That  Jew’s  family  were  long 
extinct  in  England.  Great  firms,  chiefly  in  the 
Eastern  trade,  had  successively  occupied  his 
house,  lived  and  done  business  there,  as  East- 
ern firms  are  apt  to  do  till  the  present  day. 

There  was  a saying  in  the  City  that  nobody 
had  ever  lost  money  or  reared  children  within 
its  walls ; the  successive  firms  had  died  out  or 
removed  to  their  native  lands  in  wealth  and  age, 
and  now  it  was  tenanted  by  the  last  of  the  Pali- 
vez,  one  of  the  wealthiest  spinsters  in  Europe, 
and  highly  reputed  among  mercantile  men  for 
abilities  to  hold  her  own,  and  increase  the  rich- 
es and  honors  of  the  heirless  house.  My  uncle 
had  sent  two  letters  of  introduction  with  me  by 
way  of  credentials ; one  was  addressed  to  Sam- 
uel Esthers,  Esq.,  the  ostensible  manager,  and 
the  other  to  Madame  Palivez  herself. 

His  commands  to  deliver  it  first  had  been 
stringent.  I had  also  received  strict  orders  to 
get  to  business  as  soon  as  possible ; so  I rang 
the  porter’s  bell  at  the  private  door  on  the  morn- 
ing after  Christinas,  and  was  admitted  by  a 
gray-haired  man  with  a decidedly  Greek  face, 
clad  in  a sort  of  tunic  girt  round  the  waist  with 
a shawl  of  many  colors,  and  loose  pantaloons 
which  were  never  made  in  England.  To  him 
I presented  my  card  and  the  letter  of  introduc- 
tion to  Madame.  He  took  them  without  a 
word,  touched  a bell  which  rang  far  away  in 
the  interior,  and  another  servant  immediately 
appeared,  who,  with  an  Eastern  bow,  but  also  in 
profound  silence,  opened  a door  at  one  side  of 
the  wide  passage — by-the-by,  it  was  beautifully 
painted  and  paved  with  black  and  white  marble 
— and  showed  me  into  a waiting-room  fitted  up 
in  the  best  style  of  old-fashioned  comfort  and 
elegance.  There  I sat  beside  the  bright  fire, 
looked  at  some  half  dozen  portraits  on  the  walls 
— they  were  full-length,  and  evidently  family 
pictures,  for  all  had  the  same  cast  of  features, 
every  one  Greek,  but  of  the  strongest  and  stern- 
est type — that  Hercules  might  have  looked  when 
preparing  for  his  twelve  labors,  for  there  was 
something  of  desperate  resolution  against  un- 
friendly stars  in  all  their  looks ; they  appeared 
to  have  been  taken  at  middle  life,  and  their 
semi -Eastern  costumes  belonged  to  different 
ages,  but  the  great  preponderance  of  fur  proved 
that  they  had  been  dwellers  in  the  North.  I 
had  made  these  observations  when  the  servant 
returned.  “ Madame  Palivez  will  see  the  sig- 
nor,” he  said,  in  a foreign  accent.  Let  me  ob- 
serve that  his  attire  was  still  more  Oriental  than 
that  of  the  porter;  he  wore  a purple  tunic  and 
a broad  amber  sash.  I rose  and  followed  him 


through  the  passage  across  a central  court  roofed 
with  glass.  There  were  parterres  of  beautiful 
flowers,  a marble  fountain  in  the  middle,  and 
many  windows  looking  into  it ; a broad  marble 
stair  with  a gilt  banister  led  to  the  first  floor; 
folding  doors,  half  of  painted  glass,  opened  on  a 
lofty  hall  hung  round  with  portraits  similar  to 
those  in  the  waiting-room,  but  far  more  numer- 
ous, and  some  ladies  among  them. 

Its  mosaic  pavement  and  walls  painted  in 
arabesque,  the  deep  silence  which  seemed  to 
reign  throughout  the  mansion,  and  the  ante- 
room, all  hung  with  old  Byzantine  tapestry,  into 
which  my  guide  conducted  me,  had  a new  and 
strange  effect  on  my  fancy,  which  was  rather 
heightened  when  he«drew  aside  one  of  the  mass- 
ive curtains,  and  ushered  me  through  a carved 
and  gilt  archway  into  a large  apartment  with 
high  ivindows  of  stained  glass  opening  into  a 
conservatory,  from  which  I caught  the  odor  of 
exotic  flowers;  the  walls  and  ceiling  richly  paint- 
ed with  scenes  from  Eastern  lands ; the  floor 
covered  with  Turkish  carpeting,  a l^ght  wood 
fire  burning  on  a marble  hearth  ; the  furniture 
composed  of  large  sofas,  small  tables,  bookcases, 
mirrors,  and  immense  vases  filled  with  flowers. 
Almost  in  the  centre,  on  a sofa  nearly  opposite 
the  fire  and  full  in  the  window -light,  with  a 
richly-carved  writing-table  before  her,  there  sat 
a lady  dressed  in  a gown  or  ] e'isse  of  purple 
velvet,  closely -fitting  and  ornamented  with  gold 
buttons;  hair  arranged  in  long  braided  bands 
looped  up  with  gold  pins,  and  a net  of  the  same 
shining  thread.  I know  not  what  her  age  might 
have  been  ; she  was  not  young,  she  Avas  not  old. 
The  jet-black  hair  shone  without  a touch  of 
gray  ; the  full  dark  eyes' — I could  never  settle 
whether  they  were  black  or  brown — had  a live- 
ly brightness  like  that  of  early  youth  ; there  aa  as 
n’ot  a wrinkle,  not  a trace  of  Time’s  raven  foot- 
steps on  the  straight  open  broAv  and  smooth 
cheek.  She  might  have  been  called  a fair  bru- 
nette, if  such  terms  can  go  together,  her  com- 
plexion Avas  so  clearly  broAvn.  Her  features 
Avere  finely  chiseled  as  those  of  an  antique  stat- 
ue, and  of  the  true  Grecian  mould,  without  an- 
gle or  depression.  Her  figure  Avas  round  and 
full,  Avith  sloping  shoulders  and  Avell- propor- 
tioned Avaist,  like  those  of  the  classic  Venus. 
There  was  more  of  the  matron  than  the  maid 
about  it,  nothing  heavy  or  large.  When  she 
rose  and  bent  to  me,  I saAv  that  her  height  Avas 
about  middle  size,  and  there  Avas  a native  grace 
in  all  her  motions. 

“Good-morning,  Mr.  La  Touche;  please  to 
take  a seat,”  she  said,  motioning  me  to  a sofa 
near  her  OAvn.  The  voice  was  feminine  and 
sweet,  but  there  Avas  a firm  tone  in  it,  and  the 
accent  sounded  slightly  foreign.  “Iam  obliged 
to  your  uncle,  Mr.  O'Neil,  for  affording  me  the 
pleasure  of  an  introduction.  He  is  an  old  and 
valued  acquaintance  of  our  house,  and  I trust 
you  will  make  yourself  at  home  here.” 

I made  my  best  acknoAvledgments.  She  in- 
quired kindly  after  my  uncle’s  health  ; ex- 
pressed her  great  esteem  for  him,  though  she 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


25 


had  only  seen  Mr.  O’Neil  once,  and  that  was 
many  years  ago,  when*  business  brought  him  to 
Dublin.  As  far  as  her  memory  served,  she 
thought  I resembled  him,  but  slightly.  My  own 
recollection  and  the  opposite  mirror  both  as- 
sured me  of  the  fact.  I did  not  resemble  my 
uncle  much,  and,  as  the  Americans  say,  did  not 
want  to,  though  he  evidently  stood  on  high 
ground  with  Madame  Palivez.  From  Mr.  O’Neil 


attained  evidently  known  to  her.  Yet,  while 
she  talked  so  easily  and  kindly,  the  lady  was 
taking  my  measure.  I could  not  say  what 
made  me  aware  of  it;  she  did  not  scrutinize 
me,  she  did  not  ask  me  questions ; on  the  con- 
trary, she  looked  and  spoke  as  if  we  had  known 
each  other  for  years  ; yet  there  was  no  intima- 
cy, no  partiality  in  her  manner.  It  was  friend- 
ly, but  that  of  a superior ; not  patronizing,  not 


Madame  Palivez  will  see  the  signor. 


the  lady  passed  to  his  business  and  Baltimore 
trade  in  general,  and  I will  confess  never  to  have 
been  more  astonished  in  my  life  than  I was  at 
her  intimate  knowledge  of  the  whole  matter. 

Had  Madame  been  clerking  in  my  uncle’s 
counting-house  instead  of  me,  she  could  not 
have  been  better  acquainted  with  the  transac-  i 
tions  of  the  firm  ; indeed,  there  were  some  se- 
crets  of  my  uncle’s  policy  to  which  I had  never  | 


condescending,  but  something  which  I had  nev- 
er met  before  in  man  or  woman,  and  on  which 
I could  never  presume.  Yet  she  was  taking 
notes  of  me,  person  and  mind.  It  might  have 
been  her  business-like  habit  with  all  men ; but 
the  impression  made  me  confused,  and  I fear 
foolish. 

“Your  uncle,”  she  said  at  length,  “mentions 
that  his  agency  will  admit  of  your  taking  a 


26 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


clerkship  here.  Our  manager,  Mr.  Esthers — you 
have  brought  an  introduction  to  him,  I believe 
— requires  an  English  clerk  just  now.  Should 
the  situation  suit  you,  its  duties  are  not  very  la- 
borious ; they  will  allow  you  time  to  transact 
your  uncle’s  business;  the  remuneration  may 
be  of  use  to  you,  and  our  clerks  generally  board 
on  the  premises.” 

There  was  the  cause  of  my  being  surveyed 
and  canvassed.  The  Palivez  always  kept  a na- 
tive clerk,  and  I was  appointed  to  fill  the  posi- 
tion which  Jeremy  Joyce  had  occupied  in  their 
Dublin  establishment.  My  uncle  had  told  me 
nothing  bf  that.  It  did  not  consist  with  Mr. 
O’Neil’s  policy  that  his  discarded  nephew  should 
know  he  was  making  such  interest  for  him  ; but, 
as  Madame  had  remarked,  the  remuneration 
would  be  of  use  to  me.  Board  op  the  premises 
was  something  to  a man  without  friends  or  a 
home  in  London,  and  I gathered  sufficient  com- 
posure to  say  I should  be  happy  to  accept  the 
situation,  and  discharge  its  duties  to  the  best  of 
my  abilities.  s 

“No  doubt,”  said  Madame,  “you  will  give 
our  manager  every  satisfaction.  Mr.  Esthers  is 
an  experienced  man  of  business;  punctual  and 
regular  himself,  he  expects  similar  conduct  from 
all  his  assistants  ; but  1 am  sure  you  have  had 
such  excellent  training'in  Mr.  O’Neil’s  office  as 
will  make  you  an  acquisition  to  his,  and  I be- 
lieve you  will  find  him  kind  and  considerate. 
Our  place  of  business  is  in  the  front,  opening  on 
Old  Broad  Street.  This  side  of  the  house  is 
my  private  residence;  but  you  will  easily  see 
the  bank  entrance,  and  the  porter  will  show  you 
our  manager’s  room.” 

I was  expected  to  go  ; Madame  had  seen 
enough  of  me  ; so  I rose  and  took  my  leave  in 
some  haste  and  some  confusion.  She  rang  a 
bell  hard  by  her  sofa ; the  same  silent  servant 
appeared,  conducted  me  back  to  the  porter’s  do- 
main, the  door  was  noiselessly  opened  at  my  ap- 
proach, and  I found  myself  again  in  Old  Broad 
Street. 

One  ordeal  was  passed,  but  there  tvas  another 
to  get  through.  The  letter  of  introduction  to 
Samuel  Esthers,  Esq.,  still  in  my  pocket,  was 
probably  addressed  to  the  very  man  I had  seen 
in  the  Greek  Coffee-house,  hearing  the  details  of 
my  family  misfortune  from  Watt  Wilson.  Well, 
many  must  have  heard  it  besides  him,  and  the 
letter  must  be  presented  ; the  clerkship  and  the 
agency  put  together  w'ould  give  good  returns, 
and  enable  me  to  marry  Rosanna.  Strange  that 
I should  have  come  across  the  Atlantic  to  fill 
her  brother’s  place,  and  serve  the  Madame  Pali- 
vez she  did  not  like  ! 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I did  not  like  the  wom- 
an either,  as  I walked  a little  way  along  the 
pavement  to  reassure  myself  and  collect  my 
thoughts. 

She  had  received  me  courteously,  even  kind- 
ly, considering  the  difference  of  our  positions, 
yet  I felt  relieved  to  get  fairly  out  of  her  pres- 
ence. The  silent,  half  Oriental  magnificence 
which  surrounded  her  in  those  out-of-:he-world 


back  rooms — it  was  somehow  impossible  to  call 
them  that,  but  who  could  have  imagined  they 
were  in  the  heart  of  London  ? — her  singular 
beauty,  her  unascertainable  age,  beyond  my  own 
so  far,  yet  not  to  be  thought  old ; her  knowl- 
edge of  business  — it  seemed  complete  mastery 
j of  it— so  extraordinary  in  a woman  ; her  man- 
I ner  of  speech,  somewhat  antiquated,  somewhat 
scholarly ; her  foreign  accent,  her  queenly  air 
— all  had  made  an  impression  upon  me  which  I 
could  neither  shake  off  nor  reconcile  myself  to. 

The  bank  entrance  was  easily  seen — it  was 
right  in  front,  while  the  private  door  of  that 
great  house  opened  at  the  corner ; and  no 
greater  contrast  could  have  been  found  in  all 
the  world  than  the  place  of  business  presented 
to  the  private  residence.  The  former  was  en- 
tirely after  the  London  fashion,  but  newer, 
larger,  and  better  furnished  than  private  bank- 
ing establishments  were  wont  to  be  in  those 
days.  The  porter  showed  me  the  manager’s 
office,  a very  comfortable  business  room,  where 
I waited  a few  minutes,  and  took  a general  sur- 
vey, till,  according  to  my  expectation,  in  stepped 
the  very  man  to  whom  Wilson  had  told  our  sto- 
ry in  the  coffee-house.  Of  course  we  were  per- 
fect strangers,  yet  I thought  he  recognized  me 
after  the  same  manner  as  I did  him.  I was 
received  civilly,  requested  to  take  a seat,  and 
when  lie  had  read  my  uncle’s  letter,  which  did 
not  occupy  him  long,  Mr.  Esthers  formally  shook 
hands  with  me,  and  said  he  was  happy  to  see 
Mr.  O’Neil’s  nephew.  He  supposed  I under- 
stood the  business  well,  and  would  be  inclined 
to  take  a clerkship  in  the  bank ; my  uncle’s 
agency  could  not  occupy  all  my  time,  and  any 
active  man  could  fill  the  two  situations.  I de- 
clared my  willingness,  on  which  Mr.  Esthers  en- 
tered into  particulars.  The  salary  was'  one 
hundred,  with  board  on  the  premises,  but  it 
might  be  increased.  The  English  clerk  worked 
in  his  office,  himself  had  a private  room  of 
course ; the  business  hours  were  from  ten  till 
five,  but  sometimes  extra  work  required  extra 
time.  I was  aware  of  that,  no  doubt  from  ex- 
perience in  my  uncle’s  counting-house.  Mr. 
O’Neil  was  a superior  man  of  business,  and  he 
had  a great  respect  for  him.  The  manager 
talked  of  “our  house”  exactly  as  Madame  had 
clone,  but  his  glory  in  it  appeared  to  be  far 
greater.  His  civility  to  me  and  his  esteem  for 
I my  uncle  were  equally  made  manifest,  but  Mr. 
Esthers  patronized  us  both.  He  took  as  much 
I note  of  me  as  his  lady-superior  did,  but  it  was 
| taken  with  keen,  scrutinizing  looks  and  probing 
questions.  Did  I like  business?  Did  I prefer 
America  or  England?  How  could  my  uncle 
spare  me?  Had  he  got  an  assistant  in  my 
room  ? Had  I any  acquaintances  in  London  ? 
And  should  I go  to  Ireland  in  the  holidays  to 
visit  my  relations  ? Nobody  in  their  bank  got 
any  but  three  weeks,  given  some  time  after  St. 
John’s  Day,  according  as  he  could  spare  them. 

Having  satisfied  the  mighty  manager’s  curi- 
osity on  those  subjects,  and  a good  many  more 
bordering  on  my  uncle’s  transactions  and  my 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


27 


own  agency,  I concluded  the  interview  by  agree- 
ing to  all  his  terms  of  work  and  salary,  getting 
three  days  to  see  the  sights  of  London  and  in- 
troduce myself  to  my  uncle’s  brokers.  Mr. 
Esthers  gave  me  hints  of  their  sharpness,  and 
the  difficulties  I would  find  in  dealing  with 
London  people'  generally,  and  wished  me  a very 
good  morning. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

LUCIES  AND  MR.  ESTHERS. 

I saw  the  sights,  and  also  the  brokers.  The 
latter  consisted  of  two  Greeks  and  one  Ameri- 
can, none  of  them  a whit  less  sharp  than  I had 
been  admonished  to  expect,  but  indispensable 
to  my  uncle.  The  Levantine  merchants  with 
whom  he  dealt  were  in  the  habit  of  paying  him 
in  kind,  a practice  not  uncommon  yet  in  that 
line  of  trade.  The  raw  silk,  dry  fruit,  and  Tur- 
key leather  which  they  sent  in  exchange  for  his 
tobacco  and  other  American  wares,  could  be  fre- 
quently sold  to  better  advantage  in  London  than 
in  Baltimore.  It  was  the  brokers’  business  to 
manage  such  transactions ; but  my  uncle  never 
trusted  any  body  entirely,  and  entire  confidence 
in  those  gentlemen  might  not  have  been  the 
most  prudent  course.  Some  one  on  the  spot 
to  look  after  his  interest,  and  act  as  a counter- 
check, was  requisite.  Hence  my  agency,  sup- 
plemented by  the  clerkship  in  Palivez’  bank, 
which  also  took  and  kept  me  away  from  Ro- 
sanna. I felt  convinced  that  every  thing  had 
been  arranged  chiefly  for  that  purpose  ; but  our 
persecutors — in  which  category  I now  reckoned 
the  entire  house  in  Old  Broad  Street,  Madame 
and  her  manager  included — should  see  that  ourS 
true  love  Avould  stand  the  test  of  time  and  sep- 
ai’ation.  For  her  sake  I would  accept  the  posi- 
tion as  the  best  attainable  for  the  present,  and 
be  on  the  look-out  for  something  better  and 
more  independent  of  my  uncle  and  his  friends. 

I wrote  a great  deal  to  her  on  that  subject. 
There  was  a long  letter  penned  every  evening 
for  some  time,  and  sent  en  masse,  regardless  of 
the  heavy  postage  which  then  prevailed,  by  the 
first  packet.  They  unburdened  my  mind  and 
cheered  my  heart ; and  the  next  American  mail 
brought  me  one  from  her,  addressed  by  Jeremy, 
very  ill  written  and  worse  spelled,  but  full  of 
her  sorrow  for  my  absence,  and  warnings  not  to 
forget  her. 

In  the  mean  time,  I entered  on  the  combined 
duties  of  agent  and  clerk,  got  into  business  on 
the  appointed  morning  by  sending  my  trunk  to 
the  bedroom  assigned  to  me  on  the  fourth  floor 
above  the  bank,  making  my  appearance  in  Mr. 
Esthers’  office  just  as  the  clock  struck  ten,  and 
signifying  that  I had  come  to  be  his  most  obe- 
dient servant. 

Under  my  uncle’s  excellent  training,  as  Ma- 
dame called  it — I never  could  get  that  woman’s 
words  out  of  my  mind — habits  of  business  had 
become  as  second  nature  to  me,  and  they  are 


much  the  same  in  bank  or  counting-house.  I 
found  no  difficulty  in  falling  into  the  new  track; 
Mr.  Esthers,  though  punctual  and  regular  to  an 
extreme  degree,  was  not  a hard  master;  indeed, 
but  for  a strong  leaning  he  had  to  showing  peo- 
ple the  worst  side  of  every  thing  that  concerned 
themselves,  and  an  appearance  of  secret  over- 
sight and  more  than  requisite  reticence,  he  was 
easy  and  even  agreeable  to  work  under.  From 
my  first  coming  he  showed  me  a good  deal  of 
civility,  and  very  little  of  his  superiority  as  man- 
ager ; seemed  rather  inclined  to  take  me  into 
confidence  on  the  extent  of  the  firm’s  ti-ansac- 
tions,  and  the  heavy  responsibility  which  con- 
sequently rested  on  him  ; gave  me  every  in- 
formation, every  facility  for  my  own  part  of  the 
work ; was  disposed  to  chat  with  me  familiarly 
about  City  men  and  matters,  on  which  he  had 
an  immense  stock  of  anecdotes  and  details  not 
generally  known.  Working  in  the  same  office, 
and  well  inclined  toward  each  other,  Mr  Esthers 
and  I could  not  fail  to  get  tolerably  intimate, 
yet,  as  it  had  been  with  my  uncle,  so  it  was  with 
him,  I could  never  feel  at  home. 

The  effect  arose  from  different  causes,  for  Est- 
hers was  a different  man.  Though  some  fifteen 
years  my  senior,  of  far  larger  experience,  and  in 
high  authority,  there  was  nothing  about  him  to 
inspire  that  awe  and  deference  which  the  mer- 
chant O’Neil,  with  his  high-bred  manner  and 
look  of  more  than  princely  descent,  which  he 
claimed,  inspired  even  American  citizens,  and 
kept  my  youth  in  fear.  The  Palivez’  manager 
was  in  speech  and  bearing  every  inch  a mer- 
cantile clerk,  and  nothing  mor6.  Beyond  bank 
and  business  affairs,  his  education  was  extreme- 
ly limited,  except  that  he  had  considerable  flu- 
ency in  the  use  of  three  languages — English, 
Russiac,  and  modern  Greek.  I had  no  impres- 
sion of  his  being  my  superior  in  any  thing  but 
position;  yet  something  about  the  man  and  his 
ways  warned  me  that  there  was  a side  of  his 
character  I had  not  seen,  and  some  circum- 
stances confirmed  me  in  that  belief  before  we 
had  been  long  acquainted. 

In  the  first  place,  I observed  that  while  he 
gave  me  hints  at  times  very  dim  and  distant, 
but  sufficient  to  let  me  knotv  that  he  was  aware 
of  my  family’s  peculiar  history,  Mr.  Esthers  nev- 
er so  much  as  mentioned  Watt  Wilson,  with 
whom  he  must  have  been  on  intimate  terms,  and 
appeared  to  know  nothing  of  Forbes,  the  banker, 
whose  name  occasionally  turned  up  in  our  busi- 
ness transactions.  Secondly,  I found  out  by  the 
merest  accident — by-the-by,  it  was  a bit  of  a torn 
letter  which  he  had  not  completely  burned — that 
the  manager  was  in  close  correspondence  with 
my  uncle,  and  the  fragmentary  words  I could 
decipher  made  me  suspect  that  he  had  the  su- 
pervision of  my  agency.  Perhaps  it  was  not  to 
be  expected  that  the  old  gentleman  in  Baltimore 
could  confide  in  a nephew  whose  elder  brother 
had  set  him  such  an  example  of  dishonor.  At 
how  many  points  'of  my  life  would  that  ruinous 
remembrance  meet  me  ? It  kept  me  solitary 
and  sober  in  the  British  capital,  as  it  had  done 


28 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


in  the  American  town,  and,  notwithstanding  the 
change  of  place  and  scene,  my  surroundings 
seemed  to  have  taken  the  very  same  color. 

The  establishment  in  Old  Broad  Street  was 
not  exactly  like  the  Quaker  lady’s  hoarding- 
house*,  it  consisted  of  six  clerks  besides  myself 
— two  Russians,  two  Polish  Jews,  one  Arme- 
nian, and,  strange  to  say,  only  one  Greek.  He 
was  the  oldest  man  in  the  house,  and  next  to 
Esthers  in  power  and  trust.  None  of  the  rest 
were  young ; they  had  been  long  in  the  service 
and  could  speak  English,  but  all  were  reserved, 
taciturn  men.  When  they  did  converse  it  was 
among  themselves,  in  Russiac  or  modern  Greek, 
and  generally  in  low,  monotonous  tones.  The 
Jews  and  the  Russians  sat  apart  at  table  — so 
did  the  Armenian  and  the  Greek;  and  each 
race,  exhibited  the  observances  of  their  respect- 
ive rituals  as  regarded  viands  and  the  disposal 
of  them. 

Probably  those  differences  helped  to  make 
them  an  unsocial  company,  for  such  they  were  ; 
none  of  them  liked  the  manager,  and  he  liked 
none  of  them ; but  that  was  to  be  guessed  at, 
not  seen.  I think  they  did  not  like  me  either  ; 
but  Esthers  informed  me  they  never  would  like 
an  English  clerk  ; and  I also  learned  from  him, 
though  I can’t  say  he  wished  me  to  know  it, 
that  his  cherished  ambition  was  to  be  thought 
British  born,  and  neither  a Jew  nor  a foreigner. 

The  great  house  accommodated  us  all  well, 
and  we  had  but  the  front  of  it — the  ground  floor 
for  business,  the  first  for  the  manager’s  private 
apartments,  and  our  dining  and  sitting  rooms ; 
above  that,  three  floors  of  bedrooms — for  every 
clerk  had  one  to  himself — and  all  looking  out 
on  Old  Broad  Street,  for  we  had  no  back  win- 
dows; there  a solid  wall  divided  us  from  the 
central  court-yard,  and  prevented  the  possibility^ 
of  a peep  at  Madame’s  private  residence.  The 
Spanish  Jew  was  said  to  have  constructed  that 
mansion  out  of  a nunnery  which  had  occupied 
the  site,  and  fallen  to  ruin  before  the  Reforma- 
tion time.  I know  the  sunk-flat  was  deep,  but 
apparently  well  furnished,  and  inhabited  by  the 
housekeeper,  with  three  domestic  servants,  all 
discreet  women,  not  young,  and  rather  foreign- 
looking.  Madame  Oniga,  the  matron  in  au- 
thority, was  a large,  tall  woman,  about  fifty,  al- 
ways clad  in  a gown  of  black  cloth,  and  a velvet 
cap  trimmed  with  silver  lace;  she  had  a good 
many  silver  rings  on  her  fingers,  a Greek  cross 
of  the  same  metal,  and  a black  rosary  hung  at 
her  left  side;  on  the  right  they  were  balanced 
by  an  immense  bunch  of  keys,  which  rattled  as 
she  moved  about.  Madame  Oniga  was  a Rus- 
sian born,  and,  I think,  rather  proud  of  the  fact. 
She  had  the  half  Tartar  features  of  the  race, 
and  that  masculine  look  which  Russian  women 
somehow  acquire  in  advanced  life.  The  woman 
rarely  spoke  to  any  body  above  ground,  whatev- 
er she  did  in  the  sunk-flat.  Our  domestic  af- 
fairs were  well  regulated  under  her  manage- 
ment ; the  cooking  was  considerable  and  vari- 
ous, as  four  creeds  had  to  be  suited,  and  Mr. 
Esthers  would  eat  nothing  but  English  dishes, 


and  I partly  followed  his  example.  I am  not 
sure  how  it  came  to  my  knowledge,  but  he  was 
no  favorite  with  Madame  Oniga  any  more  than 
with  the  clerks.  They  were  almost  equal  sov- 
ereigns, the  one  having  charge  of  domestic, 
and  the  other  of  business  matters.  To  an  out- 
side observer,  Mr.  Esthers’  authority  would  have 
seemed  weighty  and  extensive  ,*  it  was  only 
through  being  employed  in  the  house  that  I 
came  to  know  the  great  amount  of  capital  it 
could  command,  and  the  important  transactions 
it  had,  not  alone  with  commercial  firms  at  home 
and  abroad,  but  also  with  princes  and  cabinets. 
Its  credits  and  its  loans  were  beyond  any  thing 
I had  dreamt  of ; its  management  was  like  clock- 
work; and  its  information  on  mercantile  affairs, 
and  all  that  bordered  on  the  same,  most  accu- 
rate, and  sent  through  private  channels,  the 
bearings  of  which  I nqver  knew.  But  over  the 
bank  and  over  its  managers  — yea,  over  the 
housekeeper,  and  over  all  arrangements  public 
and  private — there  was  the  invisible  but  con- 
stant and  personal  superintendence  of  the  lady 
beyond  the  wall.  She  did  not  come  often  with- 
in our  view;  at  times  we  saw  her  passing  to  the 
manager’s  office,  or  taking  a slight  survey  of  the 
premises,  by  way  of  making  her  presence  public- 
ly known. 

On  these  progresses  she  deigned  to  notice  me, 
but  not  particularly.  Madame  Palivez  knew 
all  her  clerks,  after  the  manner  of  a lady  pro- 
prietor and  head  of  the  house.  Sometimes  an 
important  client  saw  her  on  business  in  the 
manager’s  room.  She  did  not  appear  often  ; 
but  there  was  a passage  and  door  of  communi- 
cation, always  locked  in  the  inside,  and  commu- 
nicating at  once  with  the  corridor  leading  along 
the  side  of  the  court-yard  to  her  apartments, 
and  with  a stair  shut  in  by  a fire-proof  door, 
and  leading  down  to  the  vaults,  which  may  have 
belonged  to  the  ancient  nunnery,  and  now  held 
the  archives  and  pledges  kept  by  the  house  of 
Palivez.  Esthers  told  me  there  was  among  the 
latter  plate  belonging  to  a Greek  Emperor  of 
Constantinople,  and  jewels  that  had  been  worn 
by  the  first  Czarina  of  the  Vasiliewilsch  #hie ; 
but  he  did  not  tell  me  what  I very  well  knew 
before  a month’s  residence  in  the  estalflislmient, 
namely,  that  he  could  not  do  and  scarcely  sav 
any  thing  without  consulting  and  being  directed 
by  Madame.  I believe  he  would  have  died 
rather  than  acknowledge  the  fact,  though  every 
soul  about  the  house  was  perfectly  aware  of  if? 
Indeed,  when  I was  yet  a fresh  man  in  his  office, 
he  almost  gave  me  to  understand  that  the  real 
authority  resided  with  him ; Madame  was  but 
the  nominal  head,  being  only  a woman,  and  not 
competent  for  business ; but  something  in  my 
look,  or  in  his  own  shrewd  sense,  must  have 
shown  him  that  it  would  not  do,  for  he  never 
returned  to  the  subject,  and  spoke  of  his  sover- 
eign lady  as  seldom  as  possible. 

Shrewd  and  sensible  Esthers  was  beyond  the 
wont  of  cunning  people,  to  which  order  the  man- 
ager emphatically  belonged.  Within  the  limits 
of  his  knowledge  and  understanding,  few  could 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


29 


have  given  better  council.  No  knave  but  him- 1 
self  could  have  imposed  on  Esthers,  but  his  life 
labored  under  strange  and  discordant  burdens. 

I did  not  know  their  full  weight  then,  but  our 
close  association  in  work  and  living  made  one 
thing  evident  to  me.  The  commonplace,  un- 
derbred little  man  had  in  him  a hidden  hoard 
of  pride  and  ambition,  sleepless  and  unquench- 
able as  the  subterranean  fires ; though  not  very 
high -pitched,  the  summits  to  which  they  as- 
pired were  mercantile  wealth  and  influence. 
The  acknowledged  and  uncontrollable  head  of  a 
first-rate  firm  was  his  beau  ideal  of  power  and 
glory.  To  achieve  that  position,  Esthers  would 
have  done  any  thing;  but  there  was  no  likeli- 
hood of  his  craving  after  it  ever  being  satisfied, 
and  he  appeared  to  owe  all  the  world  ill-will  in 
consequence.  I never  heard  him  speak  in  hearty 
praise  of  any  body.  His  countenance  indicated 
that  he  was  no  philanthropist;  and,  except  one 
foolish  woman — where  is  the  man  who  can  not 
find  such  ? — I never  knew  a soul  who  had  the 
smallest  liking  for  Esthers. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

MR.  WILSON  OFFERS  A LITTLE  EXPLANATION. 

My  arrival  in  London  was  signalized  bv  sev- 
eral angry  letters  for  throwing  away  good  pros- 
pects, and  being  able  to  do  nothing  for  my  fami- 
ly, dictated  by  my  grand-aunt,  and  written  by 
my  sister.  The  well-disposed  but  ill-educated 
girl  contrived  to  slip  in  at  the  end  of  every  epis- 
tle, “deer  Lucien,  my  aunt  mad  me  write  this, 
but  I was  sorry  to  do  it,  and  I hope  you  will  ex- 
cise your  effectionate  sister.”  Poor  Rhoda ! 
her  orthography  was  not  worse  than  that  of  myj 
Rosanna,  but  her  rescue  from  the  farm-house, 
and  better  schooling,  occupied  less  of  my  atten- 
tion now.  Things  must  take  their  course,  and 
it  was  a far  cry  to  the  Antrim  shore.  The  an- 
gry letters  and  the  kindly  postscript  were  brief- 
ly, I fear  coldly,  answered.  I worked  for  my 
uncle^and  the  Palivez.  I learned  the  peculiari- 
ties of  the  place  and  the  pbople.  I wished  to 
make  "acquaintance  with  Watt  Wilson,  to  ac- 
knowledge my  family  debt  to  his  employer,  Mr. 
Forbes,  but  shrunk  from  attempting  either,  on 
account  of  the  memories  it  must  bring  up,  and 
the  reflections  that  might  be  made  on  my  own 
altered  position. 

Some  weeks  had  gone  this  way,  when,  cross- 
ing the  passage  to  the  office  one  morning — Mr. 
Esthers  was  indisposed,  and  had  not  come  down 
yet — I saw  Wilson  himself  coming  forward  to 
meet  me. 

“I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  La  Touche,”  said 
the  kindly  old  clerk,  looking  half  glad  and  half 
surprised  ; “ your  name  is  written  in  your  face, 
as  one  may  say ; I never  saw  a son  so  like  a 
father  ” 

“I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Wilson,”  said  I, 
extending  my  hand. 

“ God  bless  you,  sir !”  and  he  shook  it  warm- 


[ ly;  “<I  did  not  think  you  would  remember  me 
so  well  • what  a fine  man  you  have  grown  ! I 
would  have  called  upon  you  sooner,  but  I have 
been  in  Ireland.  Mr.  Forbes  was  kind  enough 
to  give  me  a holiday  just  after  Christmas,  and 
I went  to  see  the  old  place,  and  look  after  an 
orphan  family  of  nephews  and  nieces  I have 
there.  Mr.  Forbes  sent  his  compliments  to  you, 
sir,”  he  continued,  when  we  had  sat  down  in  the 
retirement  of  the  empty  office;  “he  wants  you 
to  come  to  his  house  and  be  acquainted  with 
him.  He  is  a good  man,  and  a good  friend  to 
you  and  yours  ; you  may  know  that  partly,  but 
not  so  well  as  I do.” 

“Oh  yes,  Mr.  Wilson,  I am  sensible  of  the 
great  kindness  he  has  shown  to  my  family,  and 
would  have  called  to  make  my  acknowledg- 
ments, but — ” 

“He  says  it  was  his  part  to  call  on  you,  sir, 
and  maybe  it  wits ; I am  not  up  to  the  high 
rules  of  manners,  but  Mr.  Forbes  is  such  a shy, 
nervous  man,  though  he  has  been  in  public  busi- 
ness all  his  life.  They  say  it  was  the  death  of 
his  wife  and  two  sons  that  gave  him  such  a 
shake  ; it  happened  the  very  year  before  he  left 
Dublin,”  said  Wilson,  but  I knew  what  he  had 
been  about  to  say.  ‘ ‘ Mr.  Forbes  never  got  the 
better  of  that,  sir,  and  I am  afraid  never  will,  he 
is  such  a feeling  man.  I wouldn’t  speak  of  it 
to  any  body  else,  but  it  is  my  opinion,  Mr.  La 
Touche,  that  gentleman  has  grieved  as  much 
over  your  family’s  trouble  as  ever  one  of  you 
did.  You  can’t  think  what  a frightened  look 
was  in  his  face  when  he  asked  me  in  private  if 
I thought  you  were  at  all  like  the  poor  boy  that 
was  lost — ‘like  the  eldest  brother,’ he  said  in  a 
kind  of  a whisper ; he  would  go  ten  miles  about 
rather  than  mention  the  boy’s  name.  I suppose 
it  is  thoughts  of  his  own  sons  that  come  on  him, 
though  none  of  them  were  so  far  grown,  only 
ten  and  twelve  I understand,  both  at  school,  and 
taken  with  the  scarlet  fever  three  months  after 
their  mother.  She  died  of  rapid  consumption, 
poor  woman!  and  he  has  neither  chick  nor 
child  but  Miss  Helen,  the  best  young  lady  in 
the  world,  but  not  much  to  look  at,  which  is  a 
pity,  for  she  will  be  heiress  of  all  his  gatherings. 
They  must  be  considerable,  Mr.  La  Touche,  for 
he  lives  in  a plain,  private  way,  though,  except 
the  house  you  are  in,  and  one  or  two  more,  there 
is  not  a better  banking  business  in  London. 
It  must  go  to  strangers,  I suppose,  when  he  is 
called  away.” 

“Has  Forbes  no  relations,  then?”  I in- 
quired. 

“ None  but  distant  ones  living  in  Edinburg. 
He  brought  up  an  orphan  nephew,  the  son  of  his 
only  sister,  ■who  married  an  ensign  in  Dublin, 
sore  against  his  will,  for  the  boy  was  not  steady, 
and  partly  broke  her  heart,  they  say : at  any 
rate,  she  lived  only  five  years  after  her  marriage 
— and  Mr.  Forbes  has  her  son  to  provide  for. 
When  the  ensign  went  to  Spain  with  his  regi- 
ment and  was  killed  at  Salamanca,  he  put  him 
to  school,  and  brought  him  up  as  if  he  had  been 
his  own  child — would  have  left  him  the  business, 


:o 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


I’ll  warrant ; but  like  father,  like  son  ; plaster 
Charles  — that  was  his  name  — would  settle  at 
nothing  but  running  away  to  sea,  which  he  did 
before  he  was  fifteen,  got  into  a man-of-war  as 
a cabin-boy,  and  couldn’t  or  wouldn’t  be  got  out 
again.  There  he  is  to  this  day,  a regular  sail- 
or ; Mr.  Forbes  has  made  interest  for  him,  and 
got  him  promoted  to  be  third  mate  or  something 
of  that  kind — a brave,  handsome  fellow,  I afh 
told — but  he  can’t  be  got  to  come  and  see  them 
for  the  best  of  invites,  being  ashamed  of  his  do- 
ings, I suppose  ; he  says  he  will  never  come  till 
he  is  made  a captain,  and  that  is  like  to  be  a 
good  while.  But  I am  running  on,  sir,  and  for- 
getting to  give  you  Mr.  Forbes’s  message : he 
sends  his  compliments  to  you,  and  will  be  much 
obliged  if  you  will  come  to  dine  with  him  on 
Friday  evening,  without  ceremony.  ‘ Tell  him, 
"Wilson,’  said  he,  ‘my  daughter  and  I are  not 
people  of  fashion,  but  we  will  be  happy  to  make 
his  acquaintance,  and  do  him  any  service  we 
can.’  Mr.  La  Touche,  he  is  the  kindest  man 
and  the  best  master  that  ever  lived  — not  to 
speak  of  his  friendship  to  your  family  — and  I 
hope  you’ll  go  ; the  house  is  not  far — only  two 
miles  from  London,  on  the  Uxbridge  road ; quite 
a mansion  ; they  call  it  Notting  Hill  House  ; a 
pretty  place,  though  it  is  old  and  rather  lonely ; 
you  pass  through  the  village  of  Notting  Hill  to  it, 
and  any  body  will  show  you  the  way.” 

I expressecftny  thanks  to  Mr.  Forbes,  and  my 
intention  to  accept  his  kind  invitation,  if  the 
hours  of  business  permitted. 

“ Oh  yes,  sir,”  said  Wilson,  “I  forgot  to  tell 
you  that  they  never  dine  till  six ; "Hie  coach  that 
goes  from  the  Bank  to  Tyburn  Gate  every  half 
hour  will  take  you  most  of  the  way  ; they  don’t 
keep  a carriage,  or  Mr.  Forbes  would  send  it  for 
you.” 

“He  is  too  kind,” said  I. 

“ He  is  kind  to  every  body,  sir,  qnd  more  par- 
ticularly to  you  and  yours  ; but — ” and  Wilson 
looked  slightly  confused — “there  is  something  I 
ought  to  tell  you  about  in  his  mind.  You  won’t 
take  offense  at  an  old  friend — an  old  follower,  I 
may  say ; but  when  I was  in  Ireland  I went  to 
see  Miss  Livy  and  your  sister.  I should  have 
done  it  any  way,  but  Mr.  Forbes  made  me  prom- 
ise I would,  because  the  old  woman  had  been 
writing  to  him,  saying  how  hard  up  they  were, 
and  that  you*  could  do  nothing  now ; not  that 
he  has  let  them  want,  goodness  knows;  but, 
between  ourselves,  Miss  Livy  is  getting  very 
shaky  in  her  understanding,  and  gives  poor  Miss 
Rhoda  little  life. 

“Is  not  she  the  fine,  handsome  girl,  the  very 
model  of  her  mother  ? It  did  my  eyes  good  to 
see  her;  and  so  easy-going  and  contented  like 
in  the  midst  of  her  bother,  not  entirely  with 
Miss  Livy,  though  that  would  be  plenty ; but 
you  see,  Mr.  Hughes,  your  father’s  cousin,  mar- 
ried that  housekeeper  of  his  last  year,  and  when 
women  get  married  they  will  have  their  say. 
She  and  Miss  Livy  never  had  a good  agree- 
.ment,  and  now  she  wants  that  bit  of  the  house 
they  have  for  a sister  of  hers  that  is  left  a wid- 


ow, and  Mr.  Hughes  wouldn’t  be  sorry  to  see 
their  backs  turned  either,  though  it  ill  becomes 
him,  after  your  father’s  kindness ; but  this  is  a 
forgetful  world.  However,  Mr.  La  Touche,  I 
brought  word  of  it  all,  as  I was  bound  to  do  by 
the  wishes  of  both  parties,  to  Mr.  Forbes.  I 
know  he  means  to  do  something  particular  for 
them  and  you.  ‘Wilson,’  said  he,  when  I was 
done  telling  him,  ‘ the  best  thing  for  all  the 
family  would  be  to  come  here  and  keep  a home 
for  Lucien.  I’ll  engage  that  none  of  them  will 
ever  want  while  I have  a shilling  to  spare ; there 
are  nice  cheap  houses  to  be  got  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  London,  and  they  could  be  looked  after 
there  better  than  in  Ireland.  It  is  far  off,  and 
there  are  three  helpless  women.’ 

“He  was  right  there,  Mr.  La  Touche;  you 
see  Miss  Livy  has  taken  that  poor  thing,  Han- 
nah Clark,  the  last  of  the  widow’s  daughters ; 
you  would  not  have  her  left  behind,  unprovided 
for  as  she  is,  and  I know  Mr.  Forbes  will  let  no 
heavy  burden  lie  on  your  shoulders ; that’s  what 
he  is  going  to  speak  to  you  about,  sir,  and  I 
thought  it  better  to  let  you  know  in  time.” 

My  first  feeling  was  not  one  of  gratitude  to 
the  honest  clerk  and  his  kindly  master  for  their 
solution  of  my  family  difficulties.  With  such  a 
household  hanging  on  me,  how  was  my  engage- 
ment with  Rosanna  ever  to  be  fulfilled?  But 
Wilson’s  last  words  reminded  me  that  it  "was 
my  young  sister,  my  poor  old  aunt,  and  the  last 
of  Widow  Clark’s  dumb  and  defrauded  daugh- 
ters who  were  to  be  considered.  Mr.  Forbes  was 
right ; they  would  be  more  easily  and  suitably 
supported  with  myself  than  far  off  in  Ireland. 
My  present  salary  would  be  sufficient  to  keep  a 
home  for  them  in  some  cheap  neighborhood  of 
London  without  his  assistance  ; it  went  agamst 
my  mind,  perhaps  against  my  pride,  that  a stran- 
ger should  help  to  maintain  my  relations,  friend- 
ly and  generous  as  he  had  proved  himself.  My 
duty  was  clear — to  take  up  the  burden,  and  leave 
the  rest  to  Providence.  Besides,  like  all  men 
of  the  domestic  nature,  there  Avas  comfort  in  the 
prospect  of  a home  and  household,  whatever  its 
discrepancies  might  be.  I was  tired  of  the  un- 
ameliorated barrack  life  which  had  been  my  por- 
tion in  the  Baltimore  boarding-house  and  the 
London  bank.  I had  looked  to  a different  house- 
keeping, but  that  could  not  be  for  years.  What 
Avould  Rosanna  — Avhat  Avould  her  sister  say? 
Our  affection  Avas  to  be  tested  in  earnest,  yet 
how  would  it  stand  the  Avear  and  tear  of  life  if 
it  did  not  outlast  this  trial?  And  once  more 
my  duty  Avas  clear.  I told  Wilson  so  on  the 
spot,  and  thanked  him  for  acquainting  me  with 
the  matter  before  meeting  Mr.  Forbes. 

“I  Avould  do  a deal  more  than  that,  sir,  for 
your  father’s  son,  indeed  ; he  bid  me  tell  you,” 
said  the  honest  clerk,  “it’s  himself  that  is  the 
real  friend  to  your  family  ; but,  Mr.  La  Touche, 
you’ll  not  be  offended  Avith  an  old  follower — I 
have  saAred  something,  having  never  married, 
you  see,  and  it’s  quite  at  your  service  any 
time.” 

I thanked  Wilson  once  again.  We  shook 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


31 


hands  over  if,  and  thus  made  a formal  renewal 
of  the  old  allegiance  and  sovereignty  which  had 
never  passed  out  of  Wilson’s  memory ; he  was 
still  the  clerk,  and  I was  his  master’s  son  — his 
young  master  in  fact,  notwithstanding  the  pres- 
ent equality  of  our  positions.  ‘‘But,  dear  me,” 
said  the  honest  soul,  as  we  came  to  the  end  of 
the  ceremony,  “I  am  forgetting  to  inquire  after 
Mr.  Esthers ; it’s  seldom  oite  sees  the  office  clear 
of  him  in  the  morning.” 

I explained  the  cause  of  the  manager’s  ab- 
sence. 

“Ay,”  said  Wilson,  with  a sympathizing 
shake  of  his  head,  “his  health  is  delicate  with 
sitting  too  close  at  the  desk,  I judge,  Mr.  Lu- 
cien”  — there  was  a sign  of  confirmed  loyalty 
which  Wilson  never  more  dropped— “ he  is  the 
steady  man,  a kind  of  an  example,  I may  say; 
between  ourselves,  if  he  wasn’t  of  use,  I don’t 
think  Madame  would  keep  him  as  manager, 
though  he  is  her  cousin.  She  is  a wonderful 
woman  for  an  eye  to  business ; Mr.  Forbes  tells 
me  he  has  dealt  with  the  house 'these  four-and- 
twenty  years,  and  he  will  be  bound  there  is  not 
a check  paid  she  don’t  know  of.  for  all  so^grand 
and  private  as  she  keeps  herself.  He  says  she 
did  the  very  same  in  her  father’s  time,  when  the 
bank  was  in  Castle  Street,  in  Dublin ; the  house 
they  had  there  was  nearly  as  large  as  this  one ; 
they  built  most  of  it  themselves1  nearly  a hund- 
red years  ago,  when  they  first  came  from  Am- 
sterdam, and  the  finest  part,  where  they  lived 
in  state,  and  saw  no  company  just  as  she  does 
here,  I am  told,  was  at  the  back,  and  opened 
into  Greek  Alley.  I am  not  sure  that  it  was 
not  named  in  their  honor ; you  can’t  recollect 
it,  Mr.  Lucien,  never  having  been  in  Dublin, 
an*l  it  is  not  there  now  ; they  altered  and  partly 
pmled  down  the  place,  about  seven  years  ago, 
to  build  the  Royal  Hotel — that  is  the  house  for 
charges  — but,  as  I was  saying,  Greek  Alley  is 
closed  up  and  gone,  though  it  was  convenient  to 
the  Palivez,  and,  for  that  matter,  to  all  passen- 
gers, being  a kind  of  short-cut  round  their  house 
from  Castle  Street  to  the  Liberties.  Madame 
used  to  come  and  go  that  way  .on  her  Arabian 
horse:  all  the  Dublin  people  talked  about  her 
riding,  and  no  wonder,  for  I never  saw  a woman 
so  much  at  home  in  the  saddle.  She  gallops 
past  Mr.  Forbes’s  house  every  day  in  the  sum- 
mer-time to  and  from  a sort  of  country  seat  she 
keeps  down  at  the  end  of  Kensington  Park  — a 
lonely  place,  but  very  pretty  and  foreign  like ; 
no  expense  spared  on  it,  you  see.  She  is  a 
wonderful  woman : have  you  ever  seen  her,  Mr. 
Lucien  ?” 

“Yes,  Madame  Palivez  received  me  when  I 
called  to  deliver  a letter  of  introduction  from 
my  uncle.” 

“ Oh  ! to  be  sure,  she  has  a great  respect  for 
Mr.  O’Neil ; they  have  had  long  dealings  to- 
gether. Didn’t  you  think  her  very  grand  and 
handsome  ? — all  the  young  gentlemen  do.” 

“ Well,  yes” — I wanted  to  get,  not  give  intel- 
ligence— “she  has  a Greek  face,  of  course;  is 
Mr.  Esthers  her  cousin  ?” 


“ He  told  me  so  once  ; it  was  a kind  of  a let 
out,”  said  Wilson.  “I  don’t  know  how  it  comes; 
there  is  not  much  likeness  between  them:”  and 
the  rest  of  his  reflections  were  cut  short  by  their 
subject  walking  into  the  office. 

I thought  Esthers  looked  disconcerted  at  the 
first  sight  of  Wilson,  but  he  recovered  himself 
instantly,  shook  hands  in  a most  friendly  man- 
ner, and  inquired  familiarly  after  the  health  of 
Mr.  Forbes  and  Miss  Helen. 

“ They  are  both  well,  thank  you,”  said  Wil- 
son. “ I have  been  calling  Avith  their  compli- 
ments to  Mr.  La  Touche  here.” 

Once  more  the  manager  looked  disconcerted, 
and  once  more  shook  it  off ; and  he  was  happy 
to  hear  of  Mr.  Forbes  and  his  daughter  being 
well.  They  were  excellent  people,  though  he 
wondered  the  young  lady  wasn’t  afraid  to  live  in 
that  lonely  place.  He  hoped  Mr.  Wilson  would 
mention  that  he  had  been  inquiring  for  them, 
which  the  clerk  promised  to  do.  Then  Esthers 
sounded  my  praises  in  his  own  peculiar  style. 
I was  new  yet  to  London  business,  and  had  not 
been  accustomed  to  such  a house  as  theirs,  but 
he  was  sure  I would  learn  in  time  ; nothing  like 
expermnce  bought.  And  after  some  talk  on 
mercantile  news,  and  a declaration  that  Mr. 
Forbes  would  expect  me  on  Friday,  Wilson  took 
his  leave. 

“ You  are  going  to  call  on  Forbes  ?”  said  the 
manager,  in  his  inquisitive,  patronizing  way,  as 
soon  as  the  door  closed  behind  him. 

“He  has  asked  me  to  dine  with  them,”  said  I. 

It  was  spoken  in  the  pride  of  rising  fortune, 
for  the  wealthy  banker  was  an  acquaintance  for 
a friendless  clerk  to  boast  of.  But  I was  not 
prepared  for  the  scowl  of  malignant  anger  which 
darkened  Esthers’  face,  halfi  turned  away  a§  it 
was,  and  supposed  to  be  invisible  to  me. 

“You  won’t  meet  very  lively  society  there,” 
he  continued,  in  a cool,  unconcerned  tone,  while 
he  unfolded  a large  paper,  and  made  believe  to 
look  over  it.  “ Forbes  is  a good  sort  of  a man, 
but  a regular  Scotch  Presbyterian — strict  and 
sour — and  has  brought  up  his  daughter  to  be 
the  same.  I don’t  know  why  they  live  in  that 
out-of-the-world  place,  nor  what  he  is  saving  his 
money  for.  People  say  it  is  to  get  an  earl’s  son 
for  Miss  Helen.  They  are  both  so  proud,  father 
and  daughter,  nobody  good  enough  to  associate 
with  them,  if  there  is  the  least  thing  to  be  said 
against  their  utmost  generation  ; I wonder  they 
take  notice  of  you  ?” 

“Mr.  Forbes  has  always  shown  himself  a 
fiiend  to  my  family.” 

“In  spite  of  all  that  happened! — well,  that’s 
wonderful ! Does  he  know  of  your  engagement 
in  Baltimore?  He  will  give  you  good  advice 
about  that.  There  is  nobody  so  set  against  low 
matches  as  these  saving  Scotchmen.  Where  is 
that  pocket-book  of  mine?”  and  Mr.  Esthers  de- 
parted in  search  of  his  conveniencv,  leaving  me 
in  an  inward  tempest  of  indignation  and  amaze- 
ment, but  the  latter  predominant.  What  ends 
had  he  for  ferreting  out  my  private  affairs  ? I 
felt  sure  my  uncle  had  not  told  him:  it  was  not 


32 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


Mr.  O’Neil’s  fashion  to  tell  the  like  of  his  neph- 
ew, and  why  was  he  so  disturbed  and  angry  at 
my  going  to  the  Forbes’  ? Those  questions 
could  not  be  asked  of  one’s  manager.  Mr.  Est- 
hers probably  thought  he  had  said  enough  on 
the  subject,  for  I heard  no  more  of  it,  and  on 
the  appointed  Friday  evening  took  mv  way  to 
Notting  Hill. 


CHAPTER  X. 

MISS  FORBES  AND  HER  FATHER. 

On  Friday,  as  I said,  I soon  found  my  way  to 
Notting  Hill.  The  place  is  now  a large  and 
handsome  suburb  of  London  — the  chosen  re- 
treat of  City  men,  and  people  who  have  come 
home  from  India.  There  are  streets  and  roads, 
squares  and  crescents,  with  a more  than  com- 
mon allowance  of  garden  ground  and  noble  old 
trees  dispersed  among  them,  showing  how  the 
town  has  overgrown  the  woodlands.  But  when 
I first  saw  it  in  the  lengthening  twilight  of  a 
pleasant  evening  about  the  middle  of  February, 
1817,  there  was  nothing  but  a hamlet  of  l^w  cot- 
tages standing  on  the  highest  and  most  shady 
ground  in  the  Uxbridge  Road,  between  two 
parks,  the  largest  and  most  ancient  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  London,  not  twenty  minutes’  walk 
from  Kensington,  where  the  sunset -light  of 
court  and  fashion  still  lingered,  and  within  two 
miles  of  Tyburn,  where  people  still  talked  of 
seeing  executions,  yet  one  of  the  most  secluded 
and  out-of-the-way  villages  one  could  wish  for 
when  intending  to  retire  from  the  world  and  its 
vanities. 

A bov  who  had  been  playing  with  his  fellows 
in  the  gutter  showed  me  the  way  to  Notting 
Hill  House.  The  low-pitched  but  comfortable 
old  mansion  stands  where  it  did,  at  the  east  end 
of  Holland  Park,  on  a rapidly  rising  ground, 
with  lawn  in  front  and  garden  in  the  rear,  but 
it  is  called  by  another  name  now ; has  been  re- 
paired and  remodeled  by  a city  merchant  — 
peace  be  upon  him  and  his  house,  for  I know 
him  to  be  a worthy  man.  They  have  built  a 
square  hard  by,  with  tall  houses  in  it,  and  much 
curtailed  the  garden-ground ; but  when  I first 
saw  the  old  place,  it  stood  alone  on  the  slope  of 
the  wooded  hill  where  the  parks  of  Holland  and 
Kensington  almost  met;  an  avenue  of  noble 
trees  leading  up  to  its  gates;  winter  flowers 
blooming  in  its  lawn  and  garden ; the  red  fire- 
light flashing  from  its  windows,  through  the 
thick-growing  evergreens,  and  the  whole  look- 
ing as  if  it  were  situated  somewhere  in  the  mid- 
land counties. 

Our  first  meeting  with  any  body  of  whom  we 
have  heard  or  thought  is  an  occasion  to  be  re- 
membered, and  I had  thought  of  Mr.  Forbes  in 
no  ordinary  manner.  He  was  the  only  friend 
my  family  had  found  in  their  long  adversity ; 
the  man  whose  generous  sympathy  with  them 
and  me  had  proved  as  true  as  it  was  uncommon. 
His  wealth  and  mercantile  status  should  have 


made  his  acquaintance  or  patronage  a thing  to 
be  sought  after  by  any  man  in  my  position ; yet 
his  invitation  was  more  of  a trial  than  a triumj  h 
to  me.  An  unaccountable  shrinking  had  always 
come  over  me  at  the  thought  of  meeting  him  ; 
perhaps  it  was  an  admonitory  dread  of  the  ad- 
vice against  which  I had  been  warned;  but  I 
chid  myself  for  it  determinedly  as  I rang  at  the 
gate.  It  was  opened  by  an  elderly,  respectable- 
looking servant,  with  no  pretensions  to  livery. 
He  showed  me  up  the  lawn,  across  the  oak- 
floored  hall,  and  into  the  drawing-room  — a 
ground-floor  apartment,  with  carved  wood  ceil- 
ing, rather  low,  old-fashioned  but  handsome  fur- 
niture, and  a wride  bay  window. 

From  behind  its  hangings  of  green  damask, 
where  she  seemed  to  have  been  looking  out  so 
as  not  to  be  seen,  there  came,  slowly  and  awk- 
wardly, a lady  in  a high  dress  of  plain  brown 
silk.  Her  figure  -was  small,  thin,  and  slender, 
with  those  least  attractive  characteristics  of 
woman’s  form,  high  square  shoulders,  and  a 
narrow  chest.  Her  complexion  wras  dimly  fair, 
without  a tinge  of  color.  Her  hair  was  of  a 
similar  hue,  thin,  and  tightly  put  up.  There 
was  nothing  striking  about  her  face  except  that 
it  was  of  an  uncommon  size  and  leanness,  with 
features  to  match.  Yet,  as  she  approached  me, 
and  collected  all  her  composure  in  the  fading 
light,  I could  see  that  I had  to  do  with  a gentle- 
woman. She  made  me  a courteous  inclination, 
saying  “ Miss  Forbes ;”  then  kindly  extended  her 
hand,  and  added,  “I  am  happy  to  make  your 
acquaintance,  Mr.  La  Touche,  papa  has  told  me 
so  much  of  }7ou.  He  will  be  here  in  a minute.” 

I pressed  the  offered  hand  ; it  was  small  and 
fair  as  that  of  my  own  Rosanna,  and  there  was 
no  awkwardness  about  the  lady  now  ; she  rec- 
ommended me  to  a seat  close  by  the  bright, 
blazing  fire,  asked  if  I had  any  difficulty  in  find- 
ing my  way  to  their  lonely  old  house — it  was 
rather  an  out-of-the-way  place,  but  very  pleas- 
ant in  the  summer-time,  and  papa  liked  it ; his 
health  was  delicate,  and  would  not  agree  with 
living  in  town. 

While  I was  expressing  my  high  opinion  of 
the  situation,  a tall  and  decidedly  Scotch-look- 
ing gentleman  stepped  in,  withm  likeness  to  my 
early  friend  Melrose  Morton  in  his  air  and  man- 
ner which  almost  startled  me ; but  he  looked  at 
least  thirty  years  older,  had  perfectly  gray  hair, 
and  a face  that  told  of  heavy  cares,  personal 
suffering,  or  some  great  sorrow  not  to  be  shaken 
off  or  worn  away  by  time  ; and  she  said,  “Here 
is  papa.” 

I could  believe  that  Mr.  Forbes  was  a nervous 
man,  for  he  received  me — his  deep  debtor,  and 
in  a manner  his  liege  man — kindly,  indeed,  but 
with  the  look  of  one  who  had  screwed  up  his 
courage  to  some  duty,  and  would  go  through 
with  it.  His  daughter  seemed  to  be  aware  of 
his  difficulties,  and  helped  him  over  them,  not 
taking  upon  herself,  but  screening,  his  embar- 
rassment with  gentle,  womanly  tact. 

In  the  distribution  of  Nature’s  gifts,  little 
beauty  had  fallen  to  Helen  Forbes’s  share ; yet 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


I thought  then,  as  I did  many  a time  after,  not- 
withstanding my  own  unlucky  part  in  her  his- 
tory, that  a wiser  and  better  man  might  have 
lost  his  heart  to  her  as  readily  as  I did  mine  to 
the  beautiful  girl  in  Baltimore.  I have  given  a 
true  description  of  her  appearance  at  first  sight ; 
but  I have  not  described,  and  no  words  of  mine 
could  do  justice  tp  the  feminine  grace  and  dig- 
nity of  her  habitual  manner,  the  sweetness  of 
her  smile — which,  even  at  its  brightest,  had 
something  tender  and  melancholy  in  it  — and 
the  pure,  earnest,  loving  soul  that  looked  out  of 
her  deep  brown  eyes.  She  had  seen  little  of 
what  is  called  society — little  of  the  world  in  any 
department.  Her  schooling  had  been  at  home, 
and  her  travels  extended  no  farther  than  her 
father’s  removal  from  Dublin  to  London ; but 
a sound  English  education,  some  accomplish- 
ments, and  more  natural  taste  and  sense,  made 
her  an  agreeable  and  interesting  companion. 
Her  age  was  twenty-six — just  three  years  above 
iny  own  — but  she  looked  thirty.  I think  she 
was  quietly  cheerful  by  nature ; but  some  win- 
try shadow  had  fallen  upon  her  youth,  making 
it  sad  and  sober,  as  her  father  looked  in  the 
midst  of  his  growing  wealth  and  rising  position. 
Whence  that  cloud  had  come  I could  not  imag- 
ine then ; but  as  one  must  get  an  explanation, 
I set  it  down  to  the  account  of  their  Scottish 
Calvinism,  for  the  Eorbes’  were  Presbyterians — 
neither  strict  nor  sour,  as  Esthers  had  reported 
them  ; but  both  father  and  daughter  seemed  to 
have  come  to  that  melancholy  conviction  of 
life’s  being  but  a task  and  a trial  which  appears 
to  me,  though  I have  no  reason  to  give  for  it, 
the  peculiar  characteristic  of  Scottish  piety  in 
modern  times. 

There  was  no  company  but  myself  expected, 
and  I had  the  honor  of  conducting  Miss  Forbes 
to  the  dining-room.  We  passed  through  the 
library  to  it : as  usual  in  old  mansions,  all  the 
rooms  communicated,  and  were  all  furnished  in 
the  same  antiquated  but  elegant  style.  The  at- 
tendants I saw  were  all  Scotch,  elderly  and  re- 
spectable, evidently  attached  to  the  family,  and 
long  in  the  service.  Miss  Forbes  presided,  as 
she  had  done  over  her  father’s  house  and  table 
from  her  sixteenth  year.  A better  hostess  could 
not  have  been  found  in  London ; with  her  as- 
sistance and  our  own  inclination,  Mr.  Forbes 
and  I slid  quietly  into  acquaintance. 

Unready  as  both  parties  had  been  to  meet, 
we  took  kindly  to  each  other  as  soon  as  that 
terrible  ordeal  to  all  true  Britons,  the  first  en- 
counter, was  fairly  over.  He  was  a sensible, 
courteous,  amiable  man,  with  a good  deal  of 
Scotch  prudence,  and,  what  is  not  incompatible 
with  it,  however  Southern  men  may  sneer,  gen- 
uine generosity  of  practice  and  opinion.  I nev- 
er heard  Forbes  speak  ill  of  any  body  if  he  could 
help  it.  I know  that  his  large  but  discrimina- 
ting charity  was  the  stay  and  the  praise  of  his 
poorer  neighbors.  Servants,  clerks,  and  friends, 
people  of  every  degree  who  knew  him  best,  could 
tell  of  help  from  his  purse,  or  influence  given  to 
struggling  men  in  their  sore  necessity,  and  kept 
C 


33 

from  the  world  more  closely  than  his  private  ac- 
counts. 

Forbes  had  some  pride  too — I never  knew  an 
honest  Scotchman  who  had  not ; his  walls  were 
covered  with  the  portraits  of  his  ancestors,  High- 
land chiefs,  ministers,  and,  among  the  rest,  Sir 
William  Forbes,  the  famous  Edinburg  banker,  of 
whom  my  host  was  a lineal  descendant.  We  got 
into  acquaintance  — into  conversation,  first  on 
public  views,  then  on  subjects  nearer  home,  and 
by  the  time  the  cloth  was  removed,  and  Miss 
Forbes  left  us,  we  were  almost  on  the  footing  of 
old  friends  taking  up  the  threads  of  their  com- 
panionship after  long  separation.  It  was  not 
the  wine  that  did  it,  at  least  on  the  banker’s 
part.  While  he  pressed  the  excellent  old  Port 
on  my  attention  with  sincere  hospitality,  and  I 
could  not  help  remarking  it  was  good  wine,  he 
merely  tasted  it,  said  “it  is  good,  lad,”  and  then, 
with  the  look  of  an  anchorite  casting  temptation 
from  him,  filled  up  the  half-empty  glass  with 
cold  water.  I suppose  he  saw  something  like 
surprise  in  my  look,  and  I wished  he  had  not 
the  next  moment,  for  the  troubled,  terrified  ex- 
pression of  the  man’s  face  at  once  impressed  me 
with  the  conviction  that  there  was  some  peculiar 
crack  or  twist  in  the  brain  which  seemed  other- 
wise so  sound,  and  I took  a fixed  resolution  nev- 
er to  observe  any  eccentricity  of  his  in  future. 
We  were  friends,  and  we  talked  in  a friendly 
manner.  When  he  had  drunk  his  watered  glass 
and  got  ovef  the  small  upset,  Mr.  Forbes  entered 
on  my  family  affairs  with  equal  sense  and  kind- 
ness. He  cut  short  my  acknowledgments  of 
all  we  owed  him  with  “Lucien,my  lad — I can’t 
call  such  young  men  as  you  Mr.  — and,  since 
you  are  pleased  to  think  I have  been  of  any  use, 
will  you  do  me  one  favor  in  return  ?” 

“Any  thing  in  my  power,  sir.” 

“ Thank  you,  lad.  Well,  just  never  say  anoth- 
er word  about  the  little  I have  done,  or  may  do, 
to  help  folk  better  than  myself,  but  not  so  well 
provided.  Won’t  you  try  this  Burgundy  ?”• 

I declined  the  wine,  and  made  the  promise 
on  which  he  insisted  with  such  an  earnest  look ; 
and  we  fell  to  discussing  the  proposed  settle- 
ment of  my  relations.  The  discussion  was 
brief  and  easy.  I had  made  up  my  mind  to  ac- 
cept his  views  on  every  subject  except  Eosanna. 
If  Mr.  Forbes- had  heard  any  thing  of  that  mat- 
ter, he  said  nothing.  I got  good  advices,  but 
they  were  such  as  my  own  heart  and  conscience 
concurred  in,  and  given  in  a friendly,  confiden- 
tial manner  — not  in  the  tone  of  the  patron  or 
admonisher,  which  I had  been  led  to  expect. 

We  grew  friendly — we  grew  familiar.  I felt 
as  if  Mr.  Forbes  were  no  stranger  to  me,  and 
the  cause  was  plain  to  my  after  thinking.  It 
was  not  alone  that  he  knew  the  history  of  my 
family,  and  had  been  their  steady,  almost  their 
only  friend;  but  his  resemblance  to  my  early 
help  and  adviser,  Melrose  Morton,  went  beyond 
that  of  air  and  general  appearance,  which  struck 
me  at  first  sight : he  had  the  same  sound  judg- 
ment, the  same  high  principles,  gravity  of 
thought,  earnestness  of  purpose,  honesty  of  word 


34 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


and  deed,  and  consideration,  which  took  in  ev- 
ery tittle  of  other  people’s  difficulties.  Forbes 
was  an  elder  and  a sadder  man  ; he  had  lost  a 
wife  and  children ; doubtless  it  Avas  that  long 
sorrow  which  pressed  upon  him  still — health  and 
heart  seemed  to  have  bowed  under  the  burden, 
in  spite  of  worldly  prosperity.  It  was  strange 
to  me,  young  as  I was,  that  time  and  good  for- 
tune had  not  closed  or  covered  that  rent  in  his 
life ; but  certain  it  was  that  the  regret  or  the 
memory  seemed  to  me  the  only  difference  be- 
tween him  and  Melrose  Morton. 

We  had  settled  every  thing — the  removal  of 
the  three  women  to  London : they  were  to 
march  under  Wilson’s  conduct,  as  it  would  not 
have  been  expedient  for  me  to  quit  Palivez’ 
bank,  or  ask  leave  of  absence  so  soon. 

“They  are  all  strangers  to  you,”  said  Mr. 
Forbes ; “ there  is  no  use  in  opening  your  fam- 
ily affairs  to  them.  Wilson  is  a discreet,  re- 
spectable man  ; your  grand-aunt  knows  him  long 
and  well ; he  will  manage  every  thing  as  well 
as  you  could  do,  perhaps  better,  for  he  is  not 
such  a stranger  in  the  country.  I can  spare 
him  for  a fortnight,  or  longer,  if  need  be ; he 
will  bring  them  safe ; and,  as  you  have  not  had 
time  to  earn  much  yet — as  I knoAv  you  will,  lad 
— I will  do  myself  the  pleasure  of  bearing  their 
expenses.  I’ll  take  no  denial — no  thanks  either. 
Lucien,  remember  your  promise.  Where  do 
you  think  of  taking  a house  ?” 

“I  am  not  quite  sure,  sir.”  My  mind  was 
getting  confused  on  the  subject  of  the  motives, 
yet  nothing  but  doAvnright  generosity  could  ex- 
plain his  conduct. 

“Well”  — Forbes  watered  another  glass  for 
himself — “ I Avas  going  to  ask  you  to  be  my  ten- 
ant. I have  got  some  house-property  in  that 
neAV  neighborhood  of  Baysvvater,  not  a step  from 
this,  just  through  the  turnpike  gate.  Some 
London  speculators  took  a turn  for  building 
there  last  year,  nearly  opposite  the  Palace  Gar- 
dens. They  were  to  make  a town  of  it,  and 
commenced  Avith  Moscow  Road,  in  Petersburg 
Place,  in  honor  of  the  Emperor  of  Russia,  Avho 
made  himself  so  popular  Avhen  the  allied  sover- 
eigns  visited  us.  They  partly  built  the  place, 
and  there  it  stands — a half  square  of  decent  lit- 
tle houses,  with  small  gardens  in  front  and  rear. 
But  the  road  neAer  got  finished ; people  thought 
it  too  far  out  of  toAvn,  too  lonely,  too  new ; the 
chief  speculator  had  gone  beyond  his  depth,  and 
Avas  bankrupt  before  the  end  of  the  season ; the 
place  Avas  in  the  market,  and  I bought  it  pretty 
cheap.  Some  retired  quiet  people,  who  partly 
know  me,  have  come  out  to  live  there  ; they  can 
do  so  as  economically  as  in  the  country : the 
widoAv  of  one  of  our  Scotch  ministers,  a doctor’s 
family  who  have  lost  their  father,  a lieutenant 
on  half  pay  with  his  wife  and  children,  and  two 
or  three  more  equally  respectable  neighbors, 
Avould  make  one  vacant  house  which  I happen 
to  have  on  hand  an  eligible  residence  for  you 
and  your  family.  Yes,  my  lad,  you  are  getting 
a household  about  you  early ; but  there  is  noth- 
ing like  an  apprenticeship  to  any  business,  es- 


pecially when  it  is  one’s  duty.  There  is  no 
other  wray  to  the  blessing  Avhich  maketh  rich 
and  addeth  no  sprrow,  Lucien.  But,  as  I was 
saying,  they  could  live  nicely  and  quietly  there  ; 
you  could  come  out  and  in  to  them  by  any  of 
the  coaches  from  the  bank.  It  is  a fine  walk 
for  a young  man  in  fair  weather,  too.  You 
would  be  near  neighbors  to  Helen  and  me ; Ave 
could  help  one  another  in  any  time  of  emergen- 
cy— they  are  ahvays  coming  in  this  uncertain 
life  ; and  you  could  come  and  see  us  very  often. 
We  are  lonely  people,  and  not  much  giAren  to 
company,  neither  myself  nor  Helen,  young  as 
she  is — maybe  I have  brought  her  up  too  much 
out  of  the  Avorld ; but  it  is  an  evil  one,  and  there 
Avere  family  reasons,”  said  Forbes,  with  a sort 
of  Avince. 

I saAV  the  prudence  and  eligibility  of  his  plan 
— Iioav  much  forethought  the  wealthy  banker 
took  for  me  and  mine — and  I at  once  accepted 
the  house  in  Petersburg  Place.  He  wrote  out 
an  order  for  his  agent  to  let  me  see  the  prem- 
ises on  the  back  of  his  OAvn  card,  and  as  we  ad- 
journed to  the  draAving-room,  said,  in  a care- 
less, easy  way,  “ You  need  not  trouble  yourself 
about  furnishing;  that  is  all  done  to  your  hand 
— ‘a  melien  is  nothing  Avithout  a plenishen,’  as 
they  say  in  Scotland.” 

I would  have  thanked  him,  but  he  shook  his 
head  at  me,  and  Ave  entered  the  large,  handsome, 
well-lighted  room,  to  find  Helen  sitting  alone 
by  the  fire  knitting,  Avith  a large  snow-Avhite  cat 
by  her  side.  How  old,  and  retired,  and  settled 
doAvn  she  looked  ! but  how  friendly  and  unem- 
barrassed we  three  had  grown.  I felt  myself  a 
kind  of  a cousin  to  the  Forbes’ — they  w§re  act- 
ing a part  not  common  among  cousins ; that 
both  father  and  daughter  seemed  pleased  with 
my  company,  and  cheered  up  by  my  conversa- 
tion, helped  to  lighten  the  weight  of  so  much  of 
unmerited  and  unaccountable  kindness.  Be- 
fore we  parted,  Forbes  himself  arranged  that  I 
should  spend  every  Saturday  evening  with  them. 
All  banks  closed  earlier  on  that  day,  and  the 
proposal  reminded  me  once  more  of  Melrose 
Morton  and  our  Saturday  afternoons  at  the 
grammar-school. 


CHAPTER  XI. 
lucien’s  new  home. 

In  pursuance  of  the  plan  agreed  on  that  even- 
ing, I Avrote  to  my  aunt  and  sister,  earnestly  re- 
questing them  to  come  to  me  in  London,  and 
bring  Hannah  Clark  Avith  them,  promising  that 
not  one  of  the  three  should  ever  Avant,  and  en- 
joining them  to  put  themselves  and  their  affairs 
entirely  under  the  conduct  of  Watt  Wilson,  who 
cheerfully  undertook  the  commission. 

“It’s  proud  I’ll  be,”  said  our  ancient  and  still 
loyal  clerk,  “to  bring  along  the  last  of  the  La 
Touches  of  Armagh.  It  minds  me  of  the  times 
Avhen  the  master  couldn’t  get  away  himself,  and 
used  to  send  me  to  bring  the  missis  home  from 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


35 


the  salt  water” — he  meant  the  sea-side.  “I’ll 
bring  them  safe  and  sound,  never  fear,  Mr.  Lu- 
cien  ; I wish  it  was  to  a castle  they  were  com- 
ing, or  to  your  own  grand  establishment  that 
will  be  seen  in  the  city  some  day,”  and  Wilson 
looked  profoundly  impressed  with  the  truth  of 
his  own  prediction. 

Then  I presented  Mr.  Forbes’s  order  to  his 
agent,  the  only  tradesman  in  the  place.  He 


water.  There  is  no  traffic,  no  concourse  there. 
Eyes  familiar  with  London  localities  will  per- 
ceive that  the  houses  are  old-fashioned,  intend- 
ed for,  and  still  occupied  by  persons  of  limited 
respectability,  though  rather  dingy  and  closely 
built  upon ; but,  at  the  time  of  my  formal  sur- 
vey, they  stood  like  a detached  hamlet,  in  the 
open  fields  opposite  Kensington  Palace  Gardens, 
sheltered  on  the  north  side  by  a few  tall  trees, 


How  old,  and  retired,  and  settled  down  she  looked ! 


kept  a general  shop,  consisting  of  his  parlor 
window  at  the  corner,  and  I took  a formal  sur- 
vey of  our  intended  residence.  The  small  semi- 
square known  as  Petersburg  Place  has  still  a 
retired  look  of  country  quiet,  though  the  Mos- 
cow Road  which  was  to  lead  to  it  has  been  long 
built  with  many  another  road  and  place  in  the 
populous  and  now  busy  neighborhood  of  Bays- 


a remnant  of  Kensington  Park,  which  was  first 
cut  into  at  that  quarter,  and  still  gives  its  name 
to  many  a square  and  terrace,  new  built,  new 
painted,  and  with  more  garden  ground  than 
they  can  boast  of  now.  The  place  had  but  one 
street  lamp,  an  ancient  oil  one,  for  gas  had  not 
yet  shown  on  London  city.  The  twopenny  post 
did  not  come  ’out  so  far,  no  watchman  was 


36 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


thought  necessary  to  the  maintenance  of  its 
peace,  the  inhabitants  had  not  much  to  lose,  but 
they  barred  their  doors  well  at  nightfall,  and 
went  with  all  their  difficulties  to  Mr.  Forbes’s 
agent.  The  house  he  showed  me  over,  number 
nine,  was  as  well  finished  as  any  there,  and 
very  respectably  furnished. 

“They  did  it  all  themselves,  sir,  he  and  Miss 
Helen,”  said  the  agent;  “ that  is,  they  gave  the 
orders  and  looked  after  the  doing  of  them,  for  a 
relation,  I think,  or  some  genteel  person  as 
changed  their  minds — the  more  fools  they,  1 can 
tell  them ; there  is  not  such  a landlord  from  this 
to  Mile-end  as  Mr.  Forbes ; no  screwing  up  rents 
or  shuffling  out  of  repairs  with  him.” 

“I  am  quite  sure  of  that ; but  what  is  the 
rent  ?”  said  I. 

“Well,  sir,  it  just  astonishes  myself;  you  are 
the  gentleman  named  in  the  order  — Mr.  La 
Touche,  I suppose  ?” 

“The  very  same.” 

“Then,  sir,  it  is  forty  pound  to  you;  mind, 
you  will  never  get  the  like  of  it.” 

“Never,”  said  I,  endeavoring  to  keep  my 
composure,  for  pride  and  gratitude  were  striving 
within  me.  Mr.  Forbes  and  Miss  Helen  to  look 
after  the  furnishing  of  a house,  and  let  it  to 
me  and  my  relations  at  a nominal  rent ! would 
Providence  ever  enable  me  to  return  the  obliga- 
tions I owed  that  man  ? I took  the  house  on  a 
seven  years’  lease,  as  the  agent  said  he  was  in- 
structed to  propose  to  me.  I made  some  other 
arrangements  requisite  for  commencing  house- 
keeping in  the  neighborhood  of  London — bv- 
the-by,  Mr.  Forbes  directed  my  inexperience 
through  the  medium  of  his  agent,  the  man  of 
the  general  shop  in  the  parlor  window ; he  gave 
me  sundry  suggestions,  and  I guessed  where 
they  came  from.  The  wealthy  banker  had 
more  Scottish  tact,  more  genuine  delicacy,  than 
to  meddle  overtly  with  the  domestic  affairs  of 
the  poor  family  he  was  assisting  at  all  points. 
In  due  time,  according  to  the  "postal  arrange- 
ments of  that  period — what  a different  world  it 
is  ffom  eight-and-forty  years  ago — I got  a re- 
sponse. written  and  spelled  in  Rhoda’s  usual 
style,  setting  forth  their  difficulties  about  com- 
ing, because  Miss  Livy  wras  afraid  that  I would 
send  for  that  girl  in  America  and  get  married  ; 
but  come  they  would,  for  that  woman  in  the 
farm-house  Avould  not  let  them  stay;  “and, 
dear  Lucien,”  said  Rhoda  in  her  P.S.,  “I  hop 
you  will  not  be  asshamed  of  us  before  your 
grand  freends  in  London.” 

About  a fortnight  after  the  receipt  of  that 
comftiunication,  I was  at  London  Bridge,  pacing 
about  the  pier  one  clear  cold  evening,  and  wait- 
ing for  the  arrival  of  the  Belfast  packet,  which 
was  to  bring  Wilson  and  my  intended  house- 
hold. The  wind  had  been  fair,  and  the  packet 
came  in  not  an  hour  after  she  was  due.  The 
custom-house  officers  had  done  their  duty  on 
board  against  the  unpaying  importation  of  Irish 
whisky.  The  passengers  began  to  come  ashore, 
and  I saw  Watt  Wilson  conducting  an  old  in- 
firm woman,  thin,  wrinkled,  much  bent  by  years 


and  rheumatism  ; and  a substantial,  rosy  rustic 
— I had  almost  said  vulgar-looking — young  one, 
whose  bringing  up  in  a farm-house  nobody  could 
doubt.  They  were  dressed  in  coarse  blue  gowns 
of  linen,  shapeless  straw  hats,  shabby  shawds ; 
and  there  were  my  active,  high-tempered,  bus- 
tling grand-aunt,  Miss  Livy,  and  the  pretty  child 
who  used  to  play  with  me,  of  whose  grown-up 
resemblance  to  Rosanna  I had  quite  convinced 
myself — my  long  - remembered  sister  Rhoda. 
They  were  followed  by  a still  more  shabbily 
dressed  girl,  with  a half  witted,  half  frightened 
look,  gazing  at  every  thing  with  open  mouth  and 
eyes,  and  making  strange  noises,  whom  Wilson 
held  fast  by  the  hand  and  vainly  endeavored  to 
quiet,  as  I,  feeling  that  no  foreigners  could  be 
half  so  strange  to  me,  came  forward  to  the  group, 
and  he  said,  “Here  we  are,  Mr.Lucien.” 

I remember  being  kissed  and  hugged  on  the 
spot  by  my  poor  old  aunt ; being  stared  at,  and 
then  aw’kwardly  shaken  hands  with  by  my  sister; 
having  some  trouble  to  keep  the  dumb  girl  from 
running  away  for  fear  of  me ; helping  Wilson 
to  get  a deal  chest,  two  spinning-wheels,  and  a 
reel  safely  landed ; getting  the  entire  party  into 
the  Uxbridge  coach,  which  left  us  close  on 
Petersburg  Place,  and  duly  installing  them  in 
number  nine.  I was  probably  as  strange  to 
their  sight  and  memory  as  they  were  to  mine. 
I think  their  expectations  were  not  so  far  dis- 
appointed in  me.  Lucien  had  been  the  gentle- 
man of  the  family  for  a considerable  time,  and 
the  idea  seemed  to  have  got  an  overwhelming 
confirmation  by  the  first  sight  of  me.  On  my 
part,  no  evidence  of  disagreeable  surprise  was 
permitted  to  be  visible.  When  the  first  shock 
of  the  meeting  was  over,  I welcomed  and  almost 
rejoiced  to  gather  these  remnants  of  a once 
happy  and  long-ruined  home  once  more  around 
me ; however  unlike  what  I had  expected  to  see 
them,  they  were  my  nearest  living  relations — 
the  two  that  kept  me  from  being  alone  in  the 
world.  Wilson  ably  assisted  in  the  settlement, 
staid  with  us  to  supper,  helped  to  make  us  ac- 
quainted with  each  other,  as  sixteen  years  of 
separation  required,  drank  our  healths,  and  Avent 
home  to  liis  sister  in  Hammersmith,  rejoicing 
that  the  La  Touches  had  got  a house  of  their 
own  again. 

Days  passed,  and  things  worked  themselves 
into  their  new  channels ; so  did  myself  and 
family.  The  deal  chest  was  unpacked  ; the 
spinning-wheels  established.  The  beAvilder- 
ment  of  their  long  voyage,  the  strange  place, 
the  strange  Lucien,  began  to  wear  off  my  aunt 
and  sister : the  one  ceased  to  sit  and  look  at  me 
as  if  she  had  never  seen  the  like  before;  the 
other  gave  up  speaking  in  a frightened  Avhisper; 
even  the  dumb  girl  got  reconciled  to  my  pres- 
ence, and  did  not  jump  away  when  I opened  the 
door.  In  short,  Ave  settled  into  something  like 
domestic  order.  All  women  knoAv  Iioav  to  as-, 
sume  the  government  within  four  walls.  My 
aunt  took  the  general  oversight,  my  sister  the 
practical  housekeeping,  and  Hannah  Clark  de- 
voted herself  to  the  duties  of  the  maid-of-all- 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


37 


work.  It  was  the  train  of  life  they  had  fol- 
lowed in  the  end  of  the  Antrim  farm-house.  I 
don’t  believe  that  any  power  or  change  of  cir- 
cumstances could  have  kept  them  out  of  it,  and, 
situated  as  we  were,  it  seemed  the  most  prac- 
ticable. I went  out  to  Palivez’  bank  every 
morning,  and  c.«me  home  to  them  at  night,  hav- 
ing arranged  to  that  effect  with  Esthers.  He 
had  first  thought  it  was  not  according  to  the 
rules  of  the  house  for  me  to  sleep  out  of  it ; the 
Palivez  always  liked  to  keep  their  people  close 
about  the  business  ; but  when  I talked  of  apply- 
ing to  Madame,  he  said  there  was  no  necessity, 
and  took  the  opportunity  to  suppose  that,  with 
such  a houseful  of  women  on  my  hands,  I would 
never  think  of  marrying  now. 

Well,  I had  got  a house  and  home,  and  could 
earn  sufficient  to  keep  it  honestly,  had  there 
been  no  generous  banker  li^g  within  half  a 
mile.  I had  a sister  to  manage  the  establish- 
ment, an  aunt  to  keep  things  proper,  a maid 
whom  they  could  regulate,  and  the  conscious- 
ness of  doing  my  duty.  The  uncared-for,  un- 
companionable days  of  boarding-house  and  bank 
life  were  over ; there  was  a family  to  bid  my 
outgoing  good-by,  and  welcome  my  return — to 
meet  at  the  breakfast-table,  and  sit  with  at  the 
evening  fire.  This  was  what  my  domestic  na- 
ture had  pined  for  through  many  a solitary 
year;  yet  with  what  drawbacks  are  our  wishes 
granted  and  our  choices  given  ! Before  the  first 
week  had  fairly  elapsed,  I was  made  sensible, 
in  spite  of  my  best  endeavors  to  think  the  con- 
trary, that  the  days  of  boarding-house  and  bank 
were  blest  with  comfort  and  quiet  never  to  be 
attained  in  number  nine.  It  was  not  alone  in 
aspect  or  attire,  accent  or  manner,  that  my  new- 
found relations  differed  from  me  and  those  with 
whom  I associated. 

The  years  which  I had  spent  in  city  life,  with 
all  its  appliances  and  civilizations,  they  had 
passed  in  the  end  of  a farm-house  on  the  An- 
trim shore ; and  let  me  observe  that  remote 
farm-houses  in  the  north  of  Ireland  were  then  a 
long  way  behind  similar  establishments  on  the 
London  Road.  Boiling  potatoes,  making  but- 
ter, and  spinning  flax  were  the  three  branches 
of  domestic  economy  with  which  they  were 
thoroughly  acquainted,  but  beyond  these  neither 
their  experience  nor  their  knowledge  extended. 
It  was  not  within  the  scope  of  my  acquirements 
to  alter  or  enlarge  their  housekeeping  views; 
but  when  carpets  looked  as  if  chickens  had  been 
fed  on  them — when  plates  and  dishes  showed 
marks  of  dirty  fingers — when  chops  and  steaks 
were  burned  to  so  many  cinders,  I could  not 
help  being  aware  of  the  fact,  and  wishing  for 
some  improvement.  It  was  a vexation  to  see 
the  pretty  furniture  which  Mr.  Forbes  and  Miss 
Helen  had  looked  after,  according  to  the  agent’s 
account,  soiled,  scratched,  and  every  way  mis- 
used by  hands  unaccustomed  to  any  thing  capa- 
ble of  injury ; while  the  glass,  china,  and  all 
sorts  of  brittle  ware  suffered  to  a frightful  ex- 
tent, from  their  being  habituated  to  nothing  but 
tin  and  pewter.  Very  few  meals  passed  off 


without  a smash ; but  these  were  not  the  only 
disagreeable  noises  in  our  establishment.  Like 
most  of  what  are  called  deaf  mutes,  poor  Han- 
nah Clark  possessed  the  power  of  speech,  but 
not  that  of  hearing,  and  made  it  manifest  by 
unintelligible  sounds,  or  rather  shouts,  which, 
strange  to  say,  conveyed  her  meaning  to  my 
aunt  and  sister,  and  were  responded  to  by  an- 
swering shouts  and  signs,  putting  me  in  consid- 
erable fear  of  indictment  for  nuisance,  as  their 
conversation,  generally  carried  on  with  open 
doors,  was  sufficient  to  disturb  a much  less  quiet 
neighborhood. 

Poor  Hannah  was  taller  and  more  slender 
than  my  sister,  but  robust  and  active.  She  was 
tolerably  handsome,  too,  though  her  face  had 
something  of  Sally  Joyce’s  edge — keen  of  eye 
and  of  apprehension,  but  utterly  uneducated  as 
regarded  mental  training.  How  difficult  it  is  to 
guess  at  the  powers  of  thought  that  are  locked 
from  us  in  perpetual  silence,  yet  speech  and 
hearing  are  but  the  instruments  of  the  mind! 
Hannah  had  one  of  her  own  without  them,  as 
after-time  made  plain  to  me;  for  the  present 
she  showed  but  a quick  eye  for  sign  and  look, 
a ready  hand  for  all  manner  of  work  that  was 
known  to  her,  including  fine  spinning,  and  a 
temper  which,  though  generally  good  and  easy, 
might  be  dangerous  if  overmuch  crossed  or  ex- 
cited. 

My  grand-aunt,  the  once  notable  Miss  Livy, 
came  next  to  her  in  right  of  peculiarity.  She 
was  far  altered  from  the  woman  I remembered, 
so  upright,  active,  and  wiry;  but  her  ancient 
affection  for  old  caps  and  gowns  had  been  con- 
firmed by  time  and  circumstances ; her  long 
occupation  of  the  corner  of  a farm-house  not 
particularly  kept  made  the  neatly  - furnished 
London  rooms  irreconcilably  uncomfortable  to 
her  age  ; her  long-drawn  battle  with  the  cousin’s 
housekeeper,  and  perhaps  the  pressure  of  years 
and  poverty,  had  turned  the  high  temper,  whose 
breaking  forth  was  the  terror  of  my  childhood, 
to  a sour  and  continuous  grumble,  as  spirited 
wine  is  apt  to  turn  to  vinegar;  a habit  of  ob- 
serving the  faults,  flaws,  and  wrong  sides  of 
every  thing,  which  Esthers  himself  could  not 
have  rivaled,  and  of  descanting  on  them  with- 
out cessation  to  the  nearest  listener,  or,  if  need 
were,  to  herself  alone.  Poor  old  woman ! she 
had  not  become  a pleasant  home-companion  ; 
but  the  consolatory  doctrine  of  the  back  being 
fitted  to  the  burden  never  found  a more  forcible 
illustration  than  in  my  sister  Rhoda.  Her  fig- 
ure was  short  and  solid,  her  face  round,  rosy, 
and  good-humored,  with  pretty  blue  eyes  and 
glossy  brown  hair ; it  was  kept  strictly  tidy,  so 
were  her  linen  gown  and  check  apron  (I  got  her 
to  change  them  for  print  and  muslin) ; Rhoda 
liked  to  be  dressed  as  well  as  other  girls — liked 
to  be  admired,  I suppose,  but  nature  had  blessed 
her  with  a disposition  so  easy,  sp  acquiescing  in 
every  thing  that  came  in  her  way,  that  effort 
or  endeavor  after  improvement  were  out  of  the 
question.  It  was  not  resignation  to  the  inevi- 
table, which  most  of  us  learn  in  process  of  time, 


38 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


but  downright  contentment  and  satisfaction  with 
the  case  as  it  stood,  however  that  might  be. 
Rhoda  had  been  content  spinning  in  the  end  of 
the  solitary  farm-house  ; she  was  content  when 
the  exceeding  strangeness  wore  off,  listening  to 
her  aunt  grumbling  in  number  nine ; and  had 
it  been  Rhoda’s  lot  to  sweep  chimneys,  she 
would  have  been  perfectly  contented  with  the 
soot.  Whoever  took  the  government  of  her, 
got  it ; whatever  statutes  were  promulgated,  she 
obeyed,  always  finding  a corner  of  her  own  to 
retire  fi;om  them,  and  a subject  of  cheerfulness 
or  consolation  under  every  difficulty.  That 
character  had  enabled  her  to  live,  ay,  and  thrive, 
through  the  misfortune,  the  successive  deaths, 
the  poverty  and  cheerless  years  which  she  had 
seen.  It  enabled  her  to  endure  Miss  Livy,  to 
find  companionship  in  Hannah  Clark,  and  to 
take  no  annoyance  from  what  she  called  my 
genteel  wrays ; but  it  also  prevented  her  from 
ever  advancing  in  manner  or  appearance.  A 
new  bonnet  or  gown  were  always  welcome  to 
her ; she  sat  upright  at  table  when  told  of  it, 
and  handled  her  fork  properly  when  reminded 
of  the  same ; she  took  private  lessons  from  me 
in  writing  and  spelling,  would  sit  at  it  diligently 
while  under  my  eye  and  command ; but  I never 
knew  her  to  improve  in  word  or  letter.  Rhoda 
was  my  affectionate  sister  till  the  end  of  the 
chapter — that  is  to  say,  about  six  months’  teach- 
ing, when  I gave  it  up  in  despair.  Yet,  as  we 
came  to  know  each  other  better,  the  girl  was  not 
without  sense  and  judgment  of  a sound  prac- 
tical kind ; there  wras  nobody  one  could  have 
consulted  on  heart  or  home  subjects  with  a bet- 
ter chance  of  getting  good  counsel:  if  she  did 
not  understand  the  matter,  Rhoda  would  say  so 
plainly.  I think  liberation  from  pride  was  one 
of  the  great  causes  of  her  contentment,  and,  as 
concerned  character  of  man  or  woman,  she  had 
an  insight  which  certainly  came  from  nature, 
not  from  opportunity.  Moreover,  though  she 
never  spelled  the  word  correctly  to  my  knowl- 
edge, Rhoda  was  affectionate  to  her  grumbling 
old  aunt,  whose  converse  with  her  varied  be- 
tween high  and  low  scolding — to  poor  Hannah, 
who  had  been  her  only  companion  all  the  farm- 
house time,  and  chiefly  to  myself ; her  memory 
had  remained  faithful  to  her  childhood’s  love 
through  long  years  of  change  and  separation  ; 
it  was  still  true  to  her  far  estranged  brother,  in 
spite  of  his  genteel  ways,  and  the  sometimes  too 
evident  probability  of  “his  being  ashamed  of 
her.”  She  was  proud  of  Lucien,  thought  he  had 
a right  to  be  a gentleman,  whatever  troubles  the 
fact  occasioned  her,  regarded  his  interests  more 
wisely  than  he  did  himself  at  times,  and  he  has 
lived  to  know  the  value  of  that  sister. 

In  the  mean  time,  I tried  hard  to  get  my  new 
household  into  my  ways,  or  bring  my  mind  to 
put  up  with  theirs  for  peace  and  duty’s  sake. 
It  was  not  an  easy  effort,  though  Watt  Wilson 
came  to  my  assistance.  They  knew  him  best ; 
he  was  the  one  friend  with  whom  they  could 
talk  in  their  own  fashion,  without  being  on  the 
height  of  good  behavior,  which  is  not  a pleasant 


position  for  any  body.  He  heard  Miss  Livy’s 
complaints  and  Rhoda’s  perplexities  with  the 
new  state  of  things ; he  advised  them  on  the 
conduct  of  domestic  matters — the  bachelor-clerk 
had  a surprising  knowledge  of  the  like  ; he 
made  no  difficulty  in  setting  them  right  on  the 
spot ; and,  with  my  grateful  concurrence,  he 
brought  his  sister  from  Hammersmith  to  help  in 
their  reclamation. 

She  was  a sensible,  honest  creature  like  him- 
self, but  burdened  with  a large  family  and  a 
small  income,  which  her  brother’s  boarding  in 
the  house  somewhat  increased.  I knew  she 
would  be  a congenial  acquaintance,  and  they 
had  need  of  such,  besides  the  grand  object  of 
her  introduction,  which  Mrs.  Mason  seemed  per- 
fectly to  understand,  and  did  her  best  to  accom- 
plish. It  is  but  fair  to  acknowledge  that  some 
amelioration  wa^ffected  in  the  course  of  time, 
but  number  nine^ever  could  be  boasted  of  as  a 
neat  and  orderly  establishment,  and  I found  my- 
self as  solitary  within  its  walls  as  ever  I had  been 
in  boarding-house  or  bank.  Companionship 
with  my  grand-aunt  was  out  of  the  question  : 
at  her  best  days  Miss  Livy  had  been  intelligent 
only  on  Irish  housekeeping,  and  now  her  re- 
tirement to  bed,  which  occurred  early  and  often, 
was  a positive  relief  to  the  whole  premises. 
Rhoda’s  education  and  mine  were  too  far  apart 
to  make  association  pleasant  to  either  side. 
The  good  girl  learned  to  sweep  and  dust  the  sit- 
ting-room before  I came  home,  light  two  can- 
dles, and  leave  me  to  my  books  and  meditations, 
while  she  retired  to  the  litter  and  liberty  of  the 
kitchen,  from  whence  her  noisy  conversation 
with  Hannah  — I never  was  sure  which  made 
the  most  noise  — resounded  through  the  house 
till  I rang  the  bell,  or  my  aunt  shouted  down 
to  them  from  her  bedroom  on  the  first  floor. 

There  was  no  help  for  it.  But  little  of  my 
time  was  passed  at  home,  and  the  less  seemed 
the  better ; besides,  one  gets  used  to  any  thing, 
and  I had  a standing  invitation  to  the  Forbes’ 
every  Saturday  evening,  which  grew  into  a reg- 
ular and  customary  thing  with  them  and  me. 
It  was  the  only  form  of  society  I had,  and,  be- 
sides myself,  there  was  very  little  company  at 
Notting  Hill  House.  They  visited  number  nine 
in  due  form,  after  waiting  with  Scottish  tact, 
and,  let  me  add,  consideration,  till  we  were  fair- 
ly settled.  Miss  Helen  came  often  after,  but 
they  were  evidently  visits  of  duty  and  of  chari- 
ty. She  listened  to  Miss  Livy — it  was  my  good 
fortune  to  be  generally  out  at  the  time  — she 
talked  to  Rhoda  as  much  as  possible,  and  tried 
to  give  religious  instruction  to  Hannah  Clark ; 
but  the  poor  girl  never  could  be  got  to  remain 
quiet  long  enough,  much  les§  to  comprehend 
one  of  the  serious  truths  Miss  Forbes  endeavor- 
ed to  impress  upon  her.  Helen  deplored  the 
fact,  so  did  her  father,  and  often  exhorted  me 
to  labor  for  Hannah’s  enlightenment  as  oppor- 
tunity served.  The  work  was  not  to  my  mind, 
perhaps  not  within  my  capacity.  I put  them 
off  with  promises  of  attempting  it  some  day, 
then  I reasoned  myself  out  of  its  possibility  j 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


39 


Hannah  remained  untaught,  but  nevertheless 
did  her  work  in  the  world,  as  most  of  us  do, 
with  or  without  instruction. 

I had  a harder  task  about  this  time  in  dis- 
closing the  new  aspect  of  my  affairs  to  Rosanna, 
according  to  the  policy  which  I had  instinctive- 
ly adopted  from  the  dawn  of  our  acquaintance 
— by-the-by,  it  was  the  unconscious  counterpart 
of  my  uncle’s  toward  myself — she  got  precise 
information  when  every  thing  was  settled.  No 
help  of  thought  or  counsel  could  be  expected 
from  that  quarter : I was  getting  more  and  more 
clear-sighted  on  the  subject,  and  it  was  easier 
to  tell  all  when  the  business  was  done,  and  ar- 
guments and  persuasions  were  useless.  How 
would  she  bear  to  hear  of  such  a hinderance  to 
our  union?  I had  said  every  thing  that  man 
could  say  in  a long  letter  of  my  unalterable  con- 
stancy and  attachment  to  her  alone.  I had  set 
the  duty  I owed  to  my  family  before  her  in  the 
clearest  light,  and  I had  given  hopes  which  my 
own  mind  scarcely  entertained  of  better  days  in 
prospect.  Yet  I waited  with  considerable  anx- 
iety for  the  arrival  of  the  next  packet.  At 
length  it  came,  and  I was  relieved  beyond  tell- 
ing by  the  first  reading  of  Rosanna’s  letter. 
There  was  a^deal  of  ill-spelled  grief  in  it — fears 
that  my  relations  wouldn’t  like  her,  and  renewed 
jealousy  of  the  London  ladies ; but  Rosanna’s 
heart  was  not  broken  by  the  intelligence;  she 
wound  up  with  an  account  of  a new  bonnet, 
and  how  well  she  looked  in  it,  and  an  old  gen- 
tleman who  had  taken  to  gazing  at  her  from 
over  the  way,  but  she  always  hid  behind  the 
window -curtain,  and  wouldn’t  mind  him;  and 
concluded  with  the  announcement  that  Sally 
was  giving  Jeremy  no  peace  to  come’  home 
again,  for  America  didn’t  answer  her  health  at 
all.  I read  that  passage  over  a second  time, 
and  not  with  the  joy  of  heart  which  might  have 
been  expected.  To  see  my  Rosanna  again,  and 
read  my  welcome  in  her  laughing  eyes,  I would 
have  taken  a long  journey  in  any  weather;  but 
the  prospect  of  her  elder  sister  coming  to  my 
side  of  the  Atlantic  had  more  of  fear  for  me 
than  I would  have  cared  to  confess.  But  the 
voyage  was  long,  and  they  were  only  thinking 
of  it ; Sally  thought  about  many  impracticable 
things,  and  this  might  be  one  of  them.  I sent 
back  a soothing  letter,  full  of  reiterated  vows 
and  good  advice,  both  honestly  meant ; and  I 
fretted  in  secret  because  there  was  no  prospect, 
no  probability  of  taking  my  poor  girl  to  myself 
away  from  her  termagant  sister — whom  I knew 
she  was  so  willing  to  leave  — and  from  the  un- 
safe, uncomfortable  life  she  led  in  that  far-off 
street  in  Baltimore. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A SUDDEN  APPEARANCE  AND  A TALK  WITH 
HELEN  PORBES. 

Melrose  Morton  and  I had  corresponded 
regularly  since  my  arrival  in  London  — it  had  I 


been  his  last  stipulation  when  he  left  me  on 
board  the  “Franklin” — and  the  same  packet  by 
which  I heard  from  Rosanna  brought  me  a let- 
ter from  him,  warmly  commending  the  course  I 
had  taken,  and  assuring  me  that  the  sacrifice 
would  be  remembered  and  rewarded,  if  not  in 
this  world,  certainly  in  that  better  one  to  come. 

“You  have  begun  well,  Lucien,”  he  said,  “in 
taking  upon  yourself  the  duty  most  evidently 
set  before  you,  and  I hope,  above  all  things,  that 
you  will  persevere  in  it.  Remember  it  is  far 
better  never  to  undertake  a thing  than  to  tire  of 
it  or  stop  midway : this  can  only  bring  evil  to 
ourselves  and  to  others : the  curse  pronounced 
against  him  that  putteth  his  hand  to  the  plow 
and  looketh  back  is  ratified  by  reason  and  expe- 
rience as  well  as  revelation.  But  I know  you 
counted  the  cost  before  you  began  to  build  the 
tower ; and  I also  know  that  He  who  called  you 
to  this  duty  can  find  means  to  reconcile  it 
with  your  wishes,  should  they  seem  good  in  his 
sight.”  My  trust  in  Morton’s  judgment  had 
grown  stronger  as  my  own  strengthened  with 
man’s  estate  and  experience.  I had  written  ev- 
ery thing  to  him  — my  family  difficulties,  Mr. 
Forbes’s  unexampled  kindness,  my  intimacy  at 
his  house,  and  opinions  of  him  and  his  daughter 
— how  good,  and  yet  how  sober  and  sorrow- 
stricken  they  seemed.  He  had  passed  my  ac- 
count of  them  with  very  little  remark  — they 
were  evidently  strangers  in  whom  he  took  no 
interest ; my  private  affairs  occupied  him  too 
much  to  think  of  mere  acquaintances ; and  I 
was  thinking  of  the  half-prophecy  of  good  days 
to  come,  contained  in  his  last  letter,  by  way  of 
consolation  under  the  above-mentioned  fret  and 
the  household  annoyances  enlarged  on  in  the 
last  chapter,  which  happened  to  be  more  than 
commonly  demonstrative  that  Saturday  even- 
ing. I had  made  my  escape  from  them  to  Not- 
ting  Hill  House,  the  only  city  of  refuge  then 
known  to  me. 

The  spring  was  coming  fast — violets  and  the 
early  primroses  were  blooming  in  the  lawn  and 
at  the  roots  of  the  old  trees  in  the  avenue ; the 
lengthening  day  made  my.  accustomed  hour 
some  time  before  sunset  — perhaps  I had  come 
early  too  — and  when  the  servant  showed  me 
into  the  drawing-room  Miss  Forbes  had  not 
come  down  from  dressing,  and  her  father  had 
not  come  home  from  business ; but  I was  no 
stranger  now,  and  took  my  seat  at  the  bay  win- 
dow to  enjoy  the  fine  prospect  of  park  and  pas- 
ture-land which  the  early  spring  was  making  so 
freshly  green. 

It  was  a soft,  clear  evening  for  that  season ; 
the  western  sky  was  red  with  the  setting  sun, 
and  a light  wind  stirred  the  tops  of  the  tall  trees. 
One  could  have  imagined  himself  in  the  heart 
of  the  country — a hundred  miles  from  London 
- — the  place  looked  so  sylvan  and  retired.  From 
the  height  on  which  Mr.  Forbes’s  house  stood  I 
could  see  far  into  the  old  Kensington  Park, 
which  then  covered  the  opposite  slope  ; they  had 
begun  to  cut  into  it  here  and  there,  and  there 
was  one  wide  path  straight  before  my  window, 


40 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


wild  and  grassy,  growing  narrower  as  it  went  up 
among  the  thick  trees,  and  cheered  by  a small 
bright  stream,  that  played  and  sparkled  down 
the  wooded  hill -side.  It  looked  like  a forest 
glade.  I half  expected  to  see  the  fallow  deer 
come  out  of  the  shade  and  drink  at  that  wild 
stream.  The  place  is  a broad  road  now,  lead- 
ing up  to  the  parish  church  of  St.John’s,  with 
small  houses  on  either  side,  a few  tall  trees  in 


without  her  train.  I had  never  seen  her  but 
once,  and  in  a different  trim ; but  the  air  and 
figure  w^ere  not  to  be  mistaken,  and  I recognized 
Madame  Palivez.  No  groom  rode  behind  her ; 
she  turned  up  the  wild  grassy  path  at  a gallop, 
as  if  bound  for  the  depths  of  the  park ; but 
half  way  up  the  slope  she  drew  bridle,  alighted 
with  an  ease  and  activity  I had  not  thought 
practicable  in  a lady’s  riding  gear,  and  stood 


The  beautiful  creature  stooped  and  drank  at  the  stream. 


the  centre,  and  the  stream  gone  out  of  sight  and 
into  the  service  of  the  Water  Company ; but  as 
I sat  and  looked  on  it  by  £Ve  light  of  the  setting 
day,  a lady,  mounted  on  a beautiful  bay  horse, 
wearing  a dark  green  riding-habit,  with  black 
hat  and  feather,  came  up  from  the  Uxbridge 
Road  in  a style  of  rapid  but  graceful  riding 
which  might  have  served  Diana  when  hunting 


with  her  hand  on  the  horse’s  neck,  while  the 
beautiful  creature,  evidently  from  the  land  of 
the  gazelle,  stooped  and  drank  at  the  stream. 

The  forest  scene  never  appeared  to  me  so 
complete  as  now.  The  Arab  horse  curvetted, 
bowed  its  graceful  neck  under  its  mistress’s 
hand ; I saw  her  pull  off  her  glove  to  stroke  it 
as  she  stood  there  and  looked  about  her,  up 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


41 


through  the  tall  trees,  down  the  grassy  path, 
and  at  last  at  the  house  and  window  where  I 
was  sitting.  Did  she  see  and  know  me  at  that 
distance?  I fancied  she  did.  Would  it  be  step- 
ping out  of  my  poor  clerk’s  place  to  bow  or  give 
any  sign  of  recognition  ? But  the  next  moment 
her  eyes  were  turned  away.  Madame  Palivez 
had  not  seen,  had  not  thought  of  me  at  all,  but 
was  suddenly  charmed  by  the  prospect  and  the 
evening.  Her  hand  was  on  the  mane,  and 
with  one  bound  she  was  in  the  saddle  again, 
cantering  away  through  the  park,  and  the  last 
flutter  of  her  dark  habit  fading  among  the  trees, 
as  I heard  the  sound  of  approaching  steps ; and 
I know  not  what  made  me  turn  hastily  from  the 
window  and  get  absorbed  in  a book  which  hap- 
pened to  lie  on  a side-table  quite  convenient.  It 
was  a collection  of  Heber’s  H}rmns,  and  on  the 
first  blank  page,  at  which  it  chanced  to  open, 
there  was  written,  “To  Miss  Helen  Forbes, from 
her  affectionate  friend  and  cousin,  Melrose  Mor- 
ton.” My  astonishment  was  so  great  that  I held 
the  book  in  my  hand,  and  was  palpably  reading 
the  presentation,  when  Miss  Forbes  came  up  with 
her  extended  hand,  sweet,  melancholy  smile, 
and  kindly  greeting.  She  must  have  seen  the 
surprise  in  my  face,  and  I was  too  curious  to 
postpone  the  inquiry. 

“ I have  taken  the  liberty  to  look  at  your 
book,  Miss  Forbes.” 

“Oh,  you  are  quite  welcome.” 

“Beautiful  Hymns  those  of  Heber.  But  I 
see  they  have  been  given  you  by  a Baltimore 
friend  of  mine,  Melrose  Morton.” 

“Did  you  really  know  him  in  America? 
How  singular  ! ” she  said. 

“Yes,  I knew  him  well.  Our  acquaintance 
is  of  more  than  sixteen  years’  standing.  I 
should  have  told  you  all  about  it  had  I known 
he  was  a relation  of  yours.” 

“ Oh  yes,  he  is  my  cousin,  and  was  always 
kind  to  me.  We  used  to  be  quite  friendly  when 
he  was  in  papa’s  bank  in  Dublin;  but”  — there 
was  something  at  once  sad  and  embarrassed  in 
her  look — “he  and  his  mother  would  go  to 
America,  and  they  seem  to  have  forgotten  us 
since.  I think  there  was  some  dispute  between 
Melrose  and  papa ; but  you  will  not  speak  of  it, 
Mr.  La  Touche  — it  would  vex  him  so,  because 
Melrose  left  us  just  at  the  time  poor  mamma 
and  my  two  brothers  died.” 

Could  that  be  the  reason  Morton  had  never 
spoken  of  the  Forbes’  as  his  cousins?  Neither 
he  nor  the  banker  looked  like  implacable  men : 
what  could  the  nature  of  their  dispute  be  ? But 
it  was  not  proper  for  me  to  inquire  farther,  and 
I could  think  of  no  change  of  subject  but  Ma- 
dame Palivez. 

“Oh  yes;  she  passes  our  house  often  in  the 
summer-time ; I think  this  is  her  first  appear- 
ance ; she  is  coming  out  to  her  country  house 
early,”  said  Helen,  in  reply' to  my  account  of  the 
fair  equestrian. 

“Does  she  live  in  the  neighborhood?”  I 
was  determined  to  get  information. 

“Yes ; she  has  built  a little  villa,  a gem  of  a 


house,  quite  foreign-like,  at  the  west  end  of  the 
Park — the  most  wonderful  wild  place-  you  ever 
saw.  She  keeps  a couple  of  old  servants  — I 
think  they  are  both  Greeks — there  all  the  sum- 
mer ; rides  down  when  she  likes,  quite  alone, 
though  there  are  grooms  and  footmen  enough 
about  her  house  in  town,  I hear;  and  shuts  it 
up  all  winter.  Papa  says  the  house  is  so  simply 
furnished  that  bad  people  would  find  nothing  to 
steal.” 

‘ ‘ That  path  seems  a roundabout  way  to  her 
villa.” 

“So  it  is ; but  she  had  it  made  for  herself ; 
it  winds  away  beautifully  through  the  old  trees. 
I go  to  walk  there  sometimes  in  fine  weather. 
There  is  no  straighter  one  for  her  except  going 
down  the  road,  and  along  the  end  of  Norland 
Park.  It  is  all  parks  and  plantations  here,  you 
see,  and  that  way  would  be  just  as  long.” 

“I  suppose  Madame  don’t  care  for  long  ways, 
she  has  such  a fine  horse,  and  rides  so  well.” 

1 ‘ Ay,  she  does  ride  beautifully ; I never  saw- 
one  look  so  free  and  easy  in  the  saddle.”  How 
sincere  she  looked  in  the  other  lady’s  praise! 
“And  her  horse  is  such  a noble  creature- — 
knows  her  so  well,  and  is  so  fond  of  her.  Many 
a time,  when  I sit  here  at  work  in  the  summer 
afternoons,  I see  her  coming  home  from  her  long 
rides.  They  say  she  goes  away  miles  into  the 
country,  pausing  to  let  it  drink  at  the  stream, 
and  stroking  its  neck  just  as  you  saw  her ; and 
the  horse  w-ill  turn  from  the  water,  rub  its  head 
against  her,  and  stand  so  quiet  till  she  bounds 
into  the  saddle.  Is  she  not  active  and  hand- 
some ? and  papa  says  Madame  is  not  young  at 
all,  but  I can’t  believe  it.” 

“ She  has  been  managing  the  bank  so  long,” 
said  I. 

“For  sixteen  years,  they  say,  since  her  father 
died,  and  nearly  four  when  he  was  old  and  re- 
tired from  business.  Before  that  she  "was  abroad, 
most  of  her  time  traveling  in  Russia  and  the 
East : I suppose  it  was  there  she  learned  to  ride 
so  well.  Mr.  Esthers  says  her  relations  are  all 
in  those  quarters,  and  she  leaves  England  every 
second  year  on  long  journeys  in  the  same  direc- 
tion to  see  them,  and  the  houses  and  agents  the 
Palivez  have  in  all  the  Eastern  towms.  Must 
not  Madame  be  wonderfully  clever  and  capable 
to  manage  it  all,  that  great  business,  as  papa 
says  she  does,  though  Mr.  Esthers  don’t  allow  it? 
Yet  I think  there  must  be  a good  deal  left  to 
him  when  she  is  on  her  travels  every  second 
year,  and  so  much  in  the  fashionable  world  every 
season.” 

“In  the  fashionable  world!  I thought  she 
lived  very  retired.” 

“I  believe  she  does,  in  Old  Broad  Street, 
quite  in  the  Eastern  style.  Papa  says  they 
lived  the  same  way  in  Dublin.  But  Madame 
has  a fine  furnished  house  in  Curzon  Street, 
Mayfair,  where  she  revives  company,  and  goes 
to  balls  and  parties  all  the  season.  I am  told 
all  the  great  people  of  the  West  End  are  hgr 
acquaintances ; and  she  is  very  intimate  at  the 
Russian  Embassy.  Perhaps  it  is,  as  Solomon 


42 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


tells  us,  ‘ that  the  rich  have  many  friends.’  She 
keeps  a box  at  the  opera,  too,  and  one  in  each 
of  the  best  theatres ; in  short,  she  sees  a deal  of 
gayety  in  the  season,  but*  always  leaves  town 
early ; then  her  house  in  Curzon  Street  is  shut 
up.  She  fives  mostly  at  her  villa  in  the  Park. 
Nobody  is  ever  asked  there,  and  her  fashionable 
friends  know  nothing  about  it.  Now  I know 
what  you  are  thinking  of,”  continued  Helen, 
with  a smile  of  quiet  archness — “woman’s  cu- 
riosity ; and  how  could  I find  out  so  much  about 
a stranger?” 

“No,  indeed,  Miss  Forbes,  I was  thinking  no 
such  thing.  It  is  natural  you  should  know  a 
good  deal.  Your  father  has  been  long  acquaint- 
ed with  the  Palivez,  and  Madame  is  a very” — I 
paused  to  find  the  proper  word. 

“Very  interesting,  very  remarkable  person,” 
said  Helen,  helping  me  out.  ‘ ‘ Of  course  I don’t 
know  her.  We  never  met — never  were  intro- 
duced. But  seeing  her  and  her  horse  pass  here 
so  often  when  I sit  at  work,  having  little  to 
occupy  my  attention,  perhaps,  and  hearing  so 
much  of  her  from  papa  and  Mr.  Esthers  when 
he  happens  to  call,  I must  confess  to  a good 
deal  of  interest  in  Madame  and  her  ways.” 
“Mr.  Esthers  could  tell  you  most  about  them, 
I suppose.  He  ought  to  have  the  fullest  inform- 
ation, being  so  long  in  the  bank,  and  in  such  a 
confidential  position,  though  I never  found  him 
willing  to  give  any;  he  rather  avoids  speaking 
of  Madame  to  me.” 

“That  is  strange,  for  he  is  always 'talking  of 
Madame  when  he  comes  here.” 

“Is  Esthers  any  relation  to  her?” 

“Papa  thinks  he  is,  but  how  near  or  distant 
nobody  knows.  He  came  into  the  bank  very 
young,  in  her  uncle’s  lifetime,  when  her  father 
was  only  the  younger  brother  there,  and  she  was 
abroad  on  her  travels.” 

“ Miss  Forbes,  do  you  know  if  it  be  true  that 
the  Palivez  always  send  their  daughters  to  some 
part  of  Southern  Russia,  where  they  come  from, 
and  go  there  to  get  married?” 

“I  believe  it  is  true.  And  there  is  another 
strange  thing  which  you  must  have  heard  about 
them — none  of  them  ever  live  to  be  old  ; they 
all  die  somewhere  about  middle  age.  I have 
heard  Mr.  Esthers  say  so ; every  body  says  it, 
and  he  sometimes  hints  that  Madame’s  life  can 
not  be  long  now.  Papa  says  her  death  would 
be  no  grief  to  him.  He  certainly  did  not  look 
grieved  when  he  said  it;  and  we  think,  from 
some  other  hints  he  dropped,  that  Mr.  Esthers 
must  he  next  heir,  for  Madame  allows  herself  to 
be  the  last  of  the  Palivez.”  , 

“ Esthers  will  be  very  rich  then,  and  thought 
a great  catch,  I’ll  warrant.” 

“No  doubt  he  will,” said  Helen;  “but — ” 
“But  what,  Miss  Forbes?” 

We  were  on  terms  familiar  enough  for  small 
jesting,  but  I was  surprised  to  see  the  swift, 
bright  blush  which  mantled  over  her  usually 
pallid  face  as  she  said, 

“Perhaps  it  is  not  right  to  think  or  say, but 
I never  liked  Mr.  Esthers,  though  he  has  been 


friendly  to  papa  in  many  ways,  and  rather  seeks 
our  acquaintance.  I don’t  know  why,  but  there 
is  something  keen  and  watchful  in  his  look,  as 
if  he  were  taking  notes  of  every  thing,  and  he 
has  such  a habit  of  seeing  people's  faults  and 
mischances  in  the  very  worst  light.  I think  he 
would  make  any  body  discontented  if  they  lis- 
tened to  him  long  enough.  I never  knew  him 
to  come  here  without  telling  me  what  a lonely 
place  it  was.  Do  you  think  it  so  very  lonely  ?” 

“ It  is  rather  retired.  But,  as  you  told  me 
when  I first  came  here,  it  must  be  very  pleasant 
in  the  summer-time.” 

“ Oh ! very,”  said  Helen,  “ when  all  the  trees 
are  full  of  leaves ; when  the  wood-lark  sings 
among  them  all  day,  and  the  nightingale  all 
night,  one  forgets  the  dreariness  of  winter  then. 
I’ll  allow  the  winter  is  dreary,  so  far  from  Lon- 
don ; but  papa  likes  a quiet  place,  and  I like 
whatever  pleases  him.” 

“ That  is  very  good  of  you  !” 

“No,  it  is  only  my  duty ; besides,  retirement 
is  perhaps  the  best  thing  for  us.”  The  bright 
blush  had  faded  away,  and  the  face  regained  its 
pale  soberness  by  this  time.  “ One  is  more  apt 
to  think  seriously  when  out  of  the  noise  and 
bustle  of  the  busy  world.  Yet,  when  I was 
younger,  I used  to  wish  sometimes  that  papa  had 
not  taken  the  loss  of  my  poor  mamma  and 
brothers  quite  so  much  to  heart,  or  chose  to  lead 
such  a solitary  and  very  quiet  life.  He  never 
cared  for  company  or  going  out  any  where  since 
then,  though  before  it  he  was  cheerful  and  so- 
cial. I can  remember  him  myself,  though  I 
was  but  a child,  and  every  body  says  he  is  such 
an- altered  man.  Many  a time  I have  tried  to 
cheer  him  up,  but  could  never  well  succeed,  that 
sorrow  weighs  so  heavy  on  him  ; yet  my  father 
does  not  repine  at  the  dispensations  of  Provi- 
dence. I know  his  Christian  faith  and  knowl- 
edge are  above  that;  but  it  may  be  I can  not  un- 
derstand the  greatness  of  his  loss,  being  so  young 
at  the  time.  At  any  rate,  my  duty  is  clear. — to 
be  as  much  of  a comfort  to  him  as  I can  ; and 
there  never  was  a kinder,  more  considerate,  or 
indulgent  father.  Here  he  comes,”  she  contin- 
ued, with  evident  pleasure,  catching  sight  of 
an  approaching  figure,  which  I would  not  have 
known  to  be  Mr. Forbes  at  that  distance — “and 
you  will  be  good  enough  not  to  speak  to  him 
about  Melrose  Morton  ; it  always  vexes  him. 
You  won’t  talk  of  me  feeling  the  place  lonely 
either,  Mr.  La  Touche  — in  fact,  I don’t  know  ; 
one  gets  used  to  the 'like  — that  would  vex  him 
too.  You  Avon’t  talk  about  it?” 

“Not  a word,”  said  I,  as  Mr. Forbes  knocked 
at  the  door. 

He  seemed  pleased  to  find  me  sitting  there 
with  Helen,  and  looked  in  better  spirits  than 
usual. 

The  quiet  evening  passed  in  more  than  com- 
mon cheerfulness.  Helen  sung  and  played  two 
or  three  Scotch  songs  for  us.  Her  voice  was 
sweet  and  flexible,  though  of  little  power  or  com-, 
pass.  Her  playing  seemed  fine  to  me,  and  I 
did  gentleman’s  duty  by  standing  behind  her 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


43 


chair  and  turning  the  leaves  of  the  music-book. 
We  were  all  pleased  with  each  other’s  company, 
and  at  the  accustomed  hour  I took  my  way 
home,  thinking,  and  not  unpleasantly,  of  Helen 
Forbes. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  ANCESTRAL  SIGNET-RING. 

It  was  not  late.  The  Forbes’  were  early  peo- 
ple, particularly  on  Saturday  night.  The  Scotch 
church  they  attended  was  a long  way  off,  and 
required  early  rising  on  Sunday.  The  night 
was  soft  and  clear,  as  the  evening  had  been, 
and  the  moon,  a little  past  the  full,  was  shining 
gloriously  on  park  and  pasture-land.  I turned 
my  gaze  instinctively  up  that  woodland  path  by 
which  Madame  Palivez  had  galloped  home  to 
her  villa.  We  had  talked  no  more  of  her  in  the 
course  of  the  evening.  Helen’s  Scotch  songs 
were  still  humming  through  my  brain  ; but  the 
flutter  of  the  green  habit  disappearing  through 
the  trees  was  there  too.  I wondered  how  her 
villa  looked  ; how  she  passed  her  time  in  it ; 
what  a strange  life  she  led  between  the  business 
and  Eastern  state  of  Old  Bro^d  Street,  the  fash- 
ion and  gayety  of  Mayfair  in  the  season,  and 
the'  summer  solitude  of  her  hermitage  at  the 
end  of  Kensington  Park,  where  nobody  was  ever 
invited,  and  a couple  of  old  Greek  servants  kept. 

What  strange  traditions  hung  about  her  fam- 
ily— known  to  men  of  business,  and  believed  in 
banks  and  counting-houses — their  daughters  ex- 
ported, their  wives  found  in  the  far  North,  where 
offshoots  of  Greece  were  planted  in  the  lands  of 
the  Tartar ; their  princely  descent — I could  be- 
lieve in  that^rom  her  looks  — their  deaths  at 
middle  age — and  she  was  the  last  of  the  Pali- 
vez ; but  Madame  could  not  be  of  middle  age 
yet.  They  said  she  had  managed  the  bank  for 
twenty  years,  and  been  long  abroad  before  it; 
there  must  be  some  mistake  — she  did  not  look 
so  old.  I looked  up  the  path  again  ; the  thick 
green  grass  and  the  glancing  stream  were  clear- 
ly seen  by  the  moonlight ; the  whole  scene  was 
wild  and  silent  as  the  untrodden  wilderness,  yet 
no  spot  ever  looked  so  lovely  to  me ; in  the  deep 
stillness  I could  catch  the  murmur  of  the  stream 
— I could  see  it  like  a thread  of  silver  winding 
down  the  grassy  path ; and  to  this  hour  I know 
not  what  impulse  sent  me  up  the  slope  to  pause 
beside  it  at  the  very  spot  where  I had  seen  the 
horse  drink  and  the  lady  in  the  green  habit  strok- 
ing its  neck.  She  always  let  it  drink  there; 
Helen  saw  her  from  the  window  where  she  sat 
at  work  in  summer  afternoons.  Had  Madame 
seen  me  at  that  same  window  ? I saw  her  look 
in  that  direction.  It  seemed  out  of  range  now; 
but  moonlight  was  not  like  day,  and  the  position 
was  a commanding  one.  Yet  what  was  it  to 
me  if  the  lady  of  the  bank — the  last  of  the  Pali- 
vez, and  my  employer  — could  see  the  window 
of  Notting  Hill  House,  and  one  of  her  clerks  a 
humble  friend  of  the  family  ? I ought  to  be  at 
home ; but  there  were  not  • many  inducements 


there,  and  the  night  was  lovely.  What  is  there 
in  the  silvery  silence  of  moonlight  to  charm 
aWay  from  us  the  worst  of  our  cares,  and  bring 
back  the  best  of  our  memories  ? I had  walked 
with  Rosanna  in  such  nights  in  Baltimore — was 
she  thinking  of  me  now  ? — but  no  moon  could 
be  shining  there : it  was  daylight  still,  and  the 
longitude  did  not  make  all  the  difference.  Ro- 
sanna was  not  the  woman  to  have  moonlight 
dreams,  and  I knew  it ; but  the  girl  was  beau- 
tiful, and. she  loved  me.  Did  Madame  Palivez 
i look  out  upon  that  moon  from  her  woodland  vil- 
la? Was  it  far  off?  Nonsense!  I ought  to  be 
at  home ; another  look  at  the  stream — and  what 
was  that  glancing  among  the  wild  primroses  that 
crept  down  to  its  waters?  A ring  — a broad 
hoop  of  beaten  gold,  with  an  amethyst  set  in  it, 
larger  than  common  ring-stones,  and  engraved 
with  the  head  of  Jupiter.  At  that  very  spot 
she  had  pulled  off  her  glove  and  stroked  the 
| horse ; the  ring  belonged  to  Madame  Palivez — 
I had  no  doubt  of  that ; there  were  Greek  char- 
acters inside  which  I could  not  read ; but  the 
ring  was  hers,  and  should  be  properly  returned. 

I went  home  with  it  in  my  waistcoat  pocket. 
I showed  it  to  Rhoda — heard  her  admiration  of 
it.  How  large  and  beautiful  the  purple  stone 
was  with  that  man's  face  on  it!  How  broad 
the  hoop  was,  with  those  queer  scores  inside ! 
and  how  small  the  lady’s  fingers  must  be — it 
would  go  on  none  of  hers  farther  than  the  tip ! 
I wrapped  the  ring  up  in  paper,  slept  with  it 
under  my  pillow,  looked  at  it  the  first  thing  in 
the  morning,  and  took  it  with  me  to  the  bank, 
determined  that  Esthers  should  hear  nothing 
about  it  till  I had  the  honor  of  delivering  her 
lost  jewel  into  Madame’s  own  hands. 

“ Lucien,”  said  Rhoda,  as  she  set  my  break- 
fast, “I  dreamt  about  that  great  lady  all  night 
— that  she  was  coming  to  our  door  in  her  car- 
riage and  taking  you  with  her ; but,  somehow, 
it  didn’t  seem  to  be  for  any  good  ; however, 
dreams  go  by  contraries,  and  I’ll  warrant  she’ll 
do  something  for  you  on  account  of  finding  her 
ring.” 

I did  not  expect  to  be  done  something  for; 
the  service  was  a small  one,  and  only  an  honest 
clerk’s  duty ; yet  I went  with  some  exultation 
of  heart,  and  in  better  than  every-day  trim,  to 
the  private  entrance  which  I had  been  happy  to 
get  out  of  not  three  months  before.  The  por- 
ter was  there,  as  silent  and  stately  as  ever.  I 
; handed  him  my  card,  and  made  my  request  to 
! see  Madame  Palivez.  He  rang  the  bell ; the 
’ Eastern-looking  servant  appeared,  and  informed 
me,  in  his  measured  words  and  foreign  accent,' 
that  Madame  was  not  at  home ; but  he  was  the 
groom  of  her  chamber,' and  would  take  charge 
of  any  message.  There  was  no  alternative  but 
to  place  the  ring  in  his  hands,  stating  Avliere  I 
had  found  it,  my  belief  that  it  belonged  to  Ma- 
dame Palivez,  and  my  wish  that  she  would  have 
the  goodness  to  let  me  know  whether  or  not  I 
was  correct  in  my  opinion. 

“The  signor  is  perfectly  correct,”  said  her 
groom,  contemplating  the  ring  with  reverence 


44 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


enough  for  a relic  ; “ this  is  my  lady’s  ring,  the 
signet  of  the  Palivezi,  made  by  a Byzantine  art- 
ist and  astrologer  for  Prince  Eusebius  before  the 
family  went  northward  and  settled  in  Russia  ; 
it  is  one  of  the  choicest  jewels  of  her  house. 
Madame  will  give  the  signor  great  thanks  for 
restoring  it.” 

I expressed  my  happiness  at  being  able  to 
serve  Madame  Palivez,  mentioned  particularly 
where  I had  found  it,  got  more  Eastern  bows 
than  I had  ever  been  treated  to  before,  and 
went  to  my  work  with  a considerable  feeling  of 
disappointment. 

The  day  passed,  so  did  many  more,  and  I 
heard  nothing  of  the  ring  or  its  fair  owner. 
Madame  Palivez  was  apparently  satisfied  with 
getting  back  one  of  the  choicest  jewels  of  her 
house,  and  thought  any  notice  of  the  poor  clerk 
who  had  found  and  restored  it  superfluous.  It 
was  true  I had  only  done  my  duty,  yet  she  might 
have  acknowledged  it  by  a civil  message  ; never 
mind,  I could  live  without  her  thanks  ; perhaps 
these  were  the  manners  of  great  ladies  in  the 
East.  Such  had  been  my  reflections  evening 
after  evening  as  I went  home ; the  non-notice 
vexed  me  more  than  I confessed  to  myself,  much 
less  to  Rhoda,  who  came,  poor  girl ! with  expect- 
ation in  her  eyes,  to  meet  me  on  my  first  home- 
coming after  the  ring  had  been  delivered.  I 
told  her  all  that  occurred  between  ipe  and  Ma- 
dame’s  servant : my  heart  drew  to  that  only  sis- 
ter in  its  difficulties,  despite  our  long  separation 
and  far  different  schooling.  “Great  people  have 
ways  of  their  own,”  said  she  ; “ I’ll  warrant  Ma- 
dame will  mind  it  some  time  ; and  if  she  don’t, 
you  acted  the  gentleman,  as  you  always  do,  I 
am  sure.” 

It  might  have  been  about  a fortnight  after,  I 
was  walking  home  along  the  Bayswater  Road 
— how  quiet  and  rural  it  was  then  ! — wondering 
why  the  last  packet  had  not  brought  me  a let- 
ter from  Rosanna;  I had  made  a resolution  to 
think  no  more  of  the  ring,  when  the  clatter  of  a 
horse’s  hoofs  behind,  and  the  sound  of  my  own 
name,  made  me  turn,  and  there  was  Madame 
Palivez,  in  her  green  habit,  mounted  on  the 
beautiful  Arabian.  “Stop,  Zara,”  she  said, 
lightly  tapping  the  sagacious  creature  with  her 
gloved  hand,  for  Madame  carried  no  whip.  The 
horse  stood  still  as  marble,  and  she  continued  to 
me,  as  I bowed,  and  positively  felt  myself  blush- 
ing, “ Good-morning,  Mr.  La  Touche.  I have 
been  puzzled  for  some  days  how  best  to  thank 
you  for  finding  my  signet-ring.” 

“No  thanks  are  requisite  or  expected,  I as- 
sure you,  Madame.” 

“Ay,  but  there  should  be;  where  did  you 
find  it  ?”  How  anxious  she  looked  on  that 
point.  “Among  the  wild  primroses  beside  the 
stream,”  she  said,  as  if  repeating  part  of  my  ac- 
count to  herself,  by  way  of  making  sure  that  she 
heard  correctly.  “How  did  you  know  the  ring 
to  be  mine?  I never  wore  it  in  your  seeing.” 

“I  supposed  it  to  be  yours,  Madame” — my 
spirit  was  getting  up  under  the  cross-examina- 
tion— “ because  I saw  you  dismount  at  that  spot, 


and  take  off  your  glove,  while  your  horse  drank 
at  the  stream,  from  one  of  the  windows  of  Not- 
ting  Hill  House,  where  I happened  to  be  spend- 
ing the  evening.” 

“You  visit  the  Forbes’  then?  Very  good 
people,  but  rather  dull,  are  they  not  ?” 

“Excellent  people,  Madame.”  She  was  go- 
ing to  say  something  else  about  them,  but 
paused  suddenly,  and  added, 

“You  made  a correct  guess  regarding  the 
ring;  it  must  have  fallen  from  my  finger  then, 
though  it  seems  to  fit  well.  There  are  none  of 
all  my  family  possessions  I value- more.” 

“It  is  a beautiful  ring,  Madame,  and  an  an- 
cient one,  I presume ; your  servant  told  me  it 
had  been  made  by  a Byzantine  artist  before 
your  family  settled  in  Russia.” 

“Ay,  yes,  Calixi  knows  its  history;  it  has 
been  our  signet  for  nine  generations — a beau- 
tiful seal.”  She  had  taken  off  her  glove  by  this 
time,  after  first  glancing  along  the  road,  as  if 
to  see  that  we  were  alone,  and  now  the  golden 
circlet  and  the  engraved  amethyst  shone  in  the 
evening  light,  and  on  a hand  whose  symmetrical 
beauty  and  marble  whiteness  had  no  grace  to 
borrow  from  gold  or  gems.  It  might  have 
served  for  Homer’s  Venus  when  she  drew  sword 
with  such  ill  fortune  against  Minerva. 

“Beautiful!”  said  I,  meaning  both  the  hand 
and  the  amethyst. 

“The  head  of  Jupiter,  the  god  of  the  old 
world,  the  dispenser  of  greatness  and  good  for- 
tune still  to  those  that  read  the  stars,”  she  said, 
looking  at  the  ring  and  not  at  me. 

“ Your  servant  mentioned  that  the  artist  who 
made  it  was  also  an  astrologer.” 

“ He  was  one  of  the  most  able  professors  of 
that  immortal  science  in  his  day,  and  there  was 
then  some  learning  in  the  world.  He  made 
this  ring  according  to  hour  and  sign — the  influ- 
ence of  the  planet  and  the  gem  are  united  in  it 
for  the  Palivezi ; they  have  kept  the  signet  and 
prospered  in  spite  of  their  evil  stars,  which  rule, 
nevertheless.”  How  seriously  earnest  and  be- 
lieving she  looked ! 

“You  have  faith  in  astrology,  then,  Madame  ?” 
said  I. 

“Yes,  I can  not  disbelieve  what  I know  to  be 
true;  but  I forgot,  for  the  moment,  that  you 
knew  nothing  of  the  science,  and  had  been 
taught  to  call  it  superstition.” 

“That  is  the  general  opinion  in  our  day,” 
said  I;  “but,  for  my  own  p^rt,  I could  never 
venture  to  say  where  truth  ends  and  supersti- 
tion begins.” 

“You  speak  wisely:  their  frontiers  are  more 
difficult  to  trace  out  than  those  of  Sweden  and 
Norway,  which  have  lately  given  the  commis- 
sioners so  much  trouble ; and  there  are  neither 
landmarks  nor  witness -stones  set  up  for  us. 
Have  you  read  the  motto  inside  the  ring?” 

“I  have  not  the  good  fortune  to  be  a Greek 
scholar,  Madame.” 

“Well,  you  can  be  a very  good  clerk  without 
Greek,  and,  what  is  better,  a wise  man,  if  that 
be  in  you.  Language  is  but  the  channel  of 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


45 


thought,  and,  as  far  as  I know,  any  one  will 
serve  the  purpose  as  well  as  another ; but  Greek 
was  the  language  of  my  ancestors  — they  spoke 
it  at  Marathon  and  Salamis — for  we  are  of  Athe- 
nian, and  not  Spartan  race : the  motto  means, 
in  English,  ‘ Suffer  and  reign.’  ” 

“ It  is  a singular  motto.” 

“ It  is  a true  one,  my  friend ; there  is  no  rul- 
ing without  suffering  too  ; but  I have  talked 
enough  about  my  signet,”  and  she  drew  on  her 
gloVe.  “You  saved  it  from  the  hands  of  some 
strolling  gipsy  or  prowling  boy,  and  thus  served 
the  fortunes  of  the  Palivezi.  Is  there  any  way 
in  which  I can  reward  you  ?” 

“I  wish  for  no  reward,  Madame.”  She  had 
encouraged  me  to  converse  as  an  equal,  and 
now  the  great  lady  was  recollecting  that  I was 
but  her  clerk. 

‘‘But  I wish  to  acknowledge  the  service : 
think  again ; is  there  nothing  in  my  power  that 
wo^Jd  suit  you?” 

It  was  doubtless  pride  and  folly  that  made  me 
answer,  “ Nothing,  Madame,”  and  doubtless  the 
motive  powers  were  visible,  for  she  responded, 
“ Something  may  occur  to  you  in  a future  day  ; 
in  the  mean  time,  accept  a thousand  thanks. 
Good  evening!”  and,  tapping  her  intelligent 
horse  to  proceed,  Madame  Palivez  galloped 
away.  I remember  watching  her  till  she  was 
out  of  sight,  but  the  great  lady  never  looked 
back.  I remember  going  home  with  a confused 
crowd  of  thoughts  in  my  mind  — a determina- 
tion to  tell  Rhoda  nothing  of  the  interview,  be- 
cause there  was  nothing  said  that  she  could  un- 
derstand, except  my  refusal  to  be  rewarded, 
which  would  not  have  met  with  family  appro- 
bation. Yet  I could  have  done  nothing  else 
were  the  whole  scene  to  be  gone  through  again  ; 
and  for  weeks  after,  all  that  had  been  said  to 
me  regarding  the  ring,  the  astrologer,  and  the 
fortunes  of  the  Palivez  was  coming  back  word 
for  word,  with  the  looks,  tones,  and  the  pres- 
ence of  the  speaker ; but  I went  home.  I went  to 
work,  and  saw  nothing  of  Madame. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

INSIDE  A THREE-PAIR  BACK. 

Wiiat  had  become  of  Rosanna  ? and  why 
had  I no  letter  from  her?  These  were  the  ques- 
tions that  troubled  me  as  weeks  wore  away,  and 
packet  after  packet  came  in.  I had  written 
three  times,  but  got  no  answer.  Could  my 
good  advice  have  been  ill  taken  ? It  was  kind- 
ly given,  and  I had  been  accustomed  to  advise 
her.  Had  any  mischance  happened?  Sally 
would  have  been  sure  to  write ; she  was  more 
than  commonly  ready  to  communicate  bad  news. 
I grew  anxious ; I grew  half  jealous,  though  it 
was  not  my  nature.  Had  the  old  gentleman 
who  gazed  from  over  the  way  any  hand  in  it  ? 
I would  wait  one  week  longer,  then  write  under 
cover  to  Jeremy,  and  demand  an  explanation. 

About  the  middle  of  the  said  week  I was  hur- 


rying into  the  bank  with  a strong  impression  of 
being  rather  late,  when  a dirty  boy  ran  up  to 
me  and  said,  “Please,  sir,  where  am  I to  find 
Mr.  La  Touche?” 

There  was  a large  note  in  his  hand,  on  which 
I caught  sight  of  my  own  name  in  a handwrit- 
ing which,  if  not  the  most  beautiful,  was  then 
the  most  welcome  in  the  world  to  me,  for  it  was 
Rosanna’s. 

“I  am  Mr.  La  Touche,”  said  I,  plucking  the 
note  from  his  fingers,  and  leaving  him  astonished 
over  a sixpence. 

There  was  greater  astonishment  for  me  in  the 
communication,  which  I read  before  I reached 
the  office. 

“ Dearest  and  most  beloved  Lucien, — 
This  is  to  let  you  know  that  we  have  all  ar- 
rived safe,  and  got  lodgings  as  directed  above. 
Sally  would  not  stay  any  longer  in  Ameriky, 
and  made  Jeremy  and  me  come  home  with  her. 
We  were  marcifully  presarved,but  very  long  on 
say ; and  I am  in  the  greatest  of  grief  and 
trouble  about  you,  not  knowen  what  you  will 
say,  and  also  having  got  no  letters  from  you. 
Dear  Lucien,  do  not  forsake  your  own  Rosanna, 
but  come  and  see  me,  or  I will  break  my  heart.” 

There  was  one  woman  that  loved  and  valued 
me  — that  would  not  regard  me  only  as  a poor 
clerk  to  be  paid  for  services  and  left  unnoticed 
as  the  desk  at  which  he  sat.  What  if  her  letter 
were  ill-spelled  and  worse  indited?  The  bad 
spelling  did  not  look  so  bad  in  the  light  by  which 
I read  it  then.  Yet  their  coming  to  London 
surprised  me.  It  was  doubtless  Sally’s  doings. 
In  spite  of  the  fits  which  kept  her  so  much  with- 
in doors,  there  was  a restless  craving  for  change 
and  excitement  in  her  uncertain  brain  — a fre- 
quent concomitant  of  such  uncertainty.  But 
the  quarter  in  which  they  had  established  them- 
selves seemed  still  more  unaccountable : it  was 
No.  5 Bolton  Row,  Mayfair;  and  Rosanna  had 
finished  what  she  called  the  direction  above  with 
“Please  to  ask  for  the  three-pair  back.” 

What  brought  them  ? What  were  they  go- 
ing to  do  in  London,  and  what  was  I to  do? 
Nothing  but  the  duty  before  me.  There  was  a 
household  in  number  nine  to  be  maintained. 
The  idea  of  bringing  home  a young  wife  to  Miss 
Livy  was  not  to  be  contemplated,  independent 
of  the  question  of  adequate  means.  Our  en- 
gagement could  not  be  fulfilled,  but  Rosanna 
and  I could  see  each  other ; our  mutual  love 
and  sympathy  would  give  us  both  support  under 
our  different  trials,  and,  as  Morton  had  said, 
how  was  our  attachment  to  stand  the  wear  and 
tear  of  life  if  it  could  not  outlast  the  years  of 
probation  ? I thought  of  those  matters  and.  of 
her  all  day.  I left  as  soon  as  business  would 
permit,  and  made  my  way  through  a pouring 
wet  evening  to  No.  5 Bolton  Row.  It  was  a 
back  outskirt  of  what  was  at  that  time  the  head- 
quarters of  fashion  ; the  spot  which  the  Prince 
Regent  delighted  to  honor  with  his  presence  at 
| ball  and  party ; the  quarter  into  which  all  the 
leaders,  dependencies,  and  offscouring  of  the 


46 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


fashionable  world  crowded  in  the  season ; where 
small  houses  were  let  at  enormous  rents,  and 
back  rooms  yielded  a revenue  to  those  that  let 
them.  Bolton  Bow  was  sacred  to  that  class: 
its  high  narrow  houses  were  filled  to  overflow- 
ing with  the  hangers-on  of  the  beau  monde ; and 
when  I knocked  at  No.  5,  and  asked  for  Miss 
Joyce,  mentioning  the  three-pair  back  as  direct- 
ed, a slatternly  maid  pointed  to  the  stair,  lit 
by  an  ill-supplied  lamp  on  the  first  landing; 
and  through  a din  of  ringing  bells  and  loud 
talking  from  every  room,  through  a steam  of 
mingled  coffee,  dinners,  and  gin,  I stumbled  up 
three  flights  — narrow,  steep,  and  sharp  at  the 
turns  — to  the  utmost  attic,  where  I caught  the 
well-known  sound  of  Sally’s  voice  in  a high  key 
of  scolding,  and  by  its  help  found  a door  in  the 
darkness,  knocked,  and  saw  the  first  light  fall 
on  Rosanna’s  face  as  she  opened  it.  With  what  j 
a scream  of  delighted  surprise  the  girl  welcomed 
me ! With  what  a flushed  cheek  and  eye  of 
dancing  light  she  led  me  in  with,  “ Sally  ! Sal- 
ly! here  is  Lucien!”  The  elder  sister  shrieked, 
and  looked  ready  for  a fit,  and  Jeremy,  who  had 
been  probably  the  subject  of  her  eloquence,  rose 
out  of  his  corner,  and  said,  “Goodness  me!”  It 
was  a low-roofed  room,  furnished  in  the  make- 
shift manner  of  top  rooms  at  the  West  End  : a 
ragged  bit  of  carpet,  in  which  one’s  feet  got  en- 
tangled ; a crazy  table,  in  danger  of  tilting  up 
if  things  were  not  properly  set  in  the  centre ; a 
few  ancient  and  stuffy  chairs,  a sofa  to  match, 
and  two  half- curtained  attic  windows.  I saw 
all  that  after  I had  seen  Rosanna.  She  looked 
as  pretty,  as  lively  as  ever,  and  had  expected 
me,  for  her  hair  was  in  full  flow  of  curls,  and 
she  had  a new  dress  on.  Sally  looked  more 
disturbed  in  her  mind  than  I had  been  accus- 
tomed to  see  her  in  Baltimore — things  were  not 
in  the  settling  line  with  her ; but  she  had  been 
scolding,  and  was  taken  by  surprise.  There 
was  no  change  in  Jerem3r — time  or  travel  could 
make  none  on  his  subjugated  soul ; but  the 
brother  and  sister  welcomed  me  with  evident 
gladness.  I heard  all  about  their  voyage,  which 
had  been  a long  one,  and  taken  soon  after  my 
advising  letter  came  to  hand.  Sally  was  clear 
on  it  that  she  must  have  died  if  they  remained 
in  America;  the  climate  was  entirely  against 
her,  and  Jeremy  was  sure  of  a situation  in  Lon- 
don. I hinted  that  situations  were  not  to  be 
found  at  every  step,  but  perhaps  they  had  some 
prospect. 

“ Oh  yes,  a good  prospect — a very  sure  pros- 
pect,” said  Sally,  with  great  authority. 

“Is  it  in  this  neighborhood?”  I was  de- 
termined to  know  what  brought  them  there. 

“No,  not  exactly.” 

“Because  you  will  find  it  an  expensive  place 
to  live  in  — these  fashionable  quarters  always 
are : this  top  floor  will  cost  you  as  much  as  very 
nice  apartments  in  a quieter  neighborhood.” 

“I  can’t  live  in  low  corners  — I never  was 
brought  up  to  it.  Those  two”  (and  Miss  Joyce 
pointed  at  her  brother  and  sister)  “could  do  it 
very  well,  I dare  say.  Their  mother  was  a 


common  person,  but  mine  was  a lady,  Mr.  La 
Touche,  and  I take  after  her.  I must  see  life — 
I must  have  society.” 

To  attempt  reasoning  with  Sally  on  her  pros- 
pects of  seeing  life,  and  having  society  in  the 
three-pair  back,  was  an  undertaking  beyond  my 
courage,  particularly  as  the  lady  could  take  fits. 
It  was  her  whim  to  settle  in  an  attic  of  Mayfair, 
just  as  it  was  to  come  home  from  Baltimore. 
Jeremy  and  Rosanna  were  mere  counters  in  the 
game,  in  right  of  their  mother  being  only  a com- 
mon person.  There  Sally  was,  and  there  she 
would  stay  till  her  brain  took  another  turn; 
and  I,  seeing  no  promise  of  peace  in  it,  waived 
the  subject,  asking  Jeremy  how  he  had  left  my 
uncle. 

Mr.  O’Neil  was  well,  but  there  had  been  a re- 
port in  Baltimore  that  he  was  going  to  get  mar- 
ried ; and  Rosanna  thought  it  must  be  true,  for 
she  had  seen  him  at  a door  in  the  Virginia  Vil- 
las, quite  grand  with  his  gold-headed  cane  &nd 
shoe-buckles.  Somebody  told  her  that  the  house 
belonged  to  Mrs.  Maynard,  a senator’s  widow, 
come  of  one  of  the  first  families  in  the  town  — 
a perfect  madam.  She  had  a son,  a conceited 
young  man,  Rosanna  thought ; he  used  to  march 
along  Baltimore  Street  as  proud  and  high  as  if 
there  was  nobody  good  enough  for  him  to  look 
at.  Jeremy  added  that  he  had  been  studying 
for  the  law,  but  changed  his  mind  lately,  and 
came  to  my  uncle’s  counting-house,  a sort  of 
apprentice  like,  to  learn  the  business,  and  Mr. 
O’Neil  thought  a deal  of  him. 

There  was  the  successor  to  my  abandoned 
prospects,  the  man  destined  to  occupy  the  place 
I had  left  vacant  in  my  uncle’s  scheme.  Well, 
I had  chosen  my  lot  and  would  abide  by  it. 
The  pretty  Rosanna  sat  by  i?iy  side  in  the  shab- 
biest of  West  End  attics,  herself  in  a flush  of 
delight,  unconcerned  about  the  shabbiness,  and 
equally  unconscious  of  the  sacrifice  thus  forced 
on  my  attention.  I would  have  done  any  thing 
to  protect  her  from  that  consciousness.  It 
pressed  heavily  on  my  mind,  now  that  I had 
additional  responsibilities  and  no  dependence 
but  my  own  earnings,  supplemented  by  the  un- 
repayable  friendship  or  charity  of  Mr.  Forbes. 
It  was  perhaps  an  unnecessary  effort  to  hide 
that  root  of  bitterness  which  made  me  say,  with 
a gayety  I did  not  feel,  “No  doubt  the  old  gen- 
tleman will  marry  the  perfect  madam,  and 
adopt  her  son.  Who  can  blame  him?  We 
would  all  marry  if  we  could.” 

“Every  one  can  that  wants  to  do  it,”  cried 
Sally,  snatching  at  the  words  like  an  opportu- 
nity, “and  I think  it  is  quite  time  you  and  Ro- 
sanna should  finish  the  business,  now  that  you 
can  keep  a house.” 

“ There  are  too  many  mistresses  in  it  al- 
ready,” said  I,  hoping  to  foil  the  unexpected 
attack. 

“ Too  many  indeed,  and  of  course  it  is  all 
goodness  in  you ; but  what  right  have  you,  Mr. 
La  Touche,  to  be  saddled  with  such  a tribe  of 
women?  I don’t  speak  against  keeping  your 
sister — a brother  can  never  value  a sister  too 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


47 


highly”  (and  she  looked  admonishingly  at  Jere- 
my)— “but  a grand-aunt,  and  a strange  wom- 
an’s daughter — dumb  and  mad,  isn’t  she?  — I 
think  some  of  your  relations,  or  somebody, 
ought  to  keep  them,  and  let  you  fulfill  your  en- 
gagement honorably.” 

“I  never  meant  to  do  otherwise,  Miss  Joyce, 
as  you  know  very  well ; but  my  grand-aunt  and 
poor  widow  Clark’s  daughter  I am  bound  to 
maintain  by  every  feeling  of  honor  and  duty. 
I have  no  relations  who  could  or  would  do  it ; 
I can  not  leave  them  destitute ; and  I love  Ro- 
sanna too  well  to  bring  her  home  to  such  a 
family.” 

“Fiddlesticks ! ” cried  my  intended  sister-in- 
law.  “Do  you  think  I would  suffer  you  to  put 
a ring  on  her  finger  till  the  house  was  clear  of 
them  ? No ! She’ll  have  a hard  enough  trial 
in  married  life,  I’ll  warrant — her  that  has  been 
kept  like  a lady,  without  having  an  old  woman’s 
tempers  and  a mad  girl  to  deal  with!  But  the 
business  must  be  finished,  I tell  you,  once  for 
all.  I’ll  have  no  more  hanging  on  or  putting 
off.  You  have  got  a situation  and  a house,  now 
is  the  time  or  never.  If  you  are  going  to  mar- 
ry Rosanna,  do  it  at  once ; and  if  you  are  not, 
say  so,  and  let  us  understand  one  another.” 

“Miss  Joyce,”  said  I,  “I  wish,  above  all 
things,  to  marry  your  sister  ; it  is  the  chief  de- 
sire of  my  heart,  the  chief  hope  of  my  life, 
which  I would  do  any  thing  in  conscience  to 
fulfill  i but  I can  not,  and  I will  not  cast  off 
my  poor  aunt  and  the  dumb  girl.” 

My  last  words  were  drowned  in  a shriek  of 
“ Oh,  you  deceiver !” 

“Now,  Sally,  don’t,”  cried  Rosanna,  and 
Jeremy  echoed  that  remonstrance ; but  it  was 
to  no  purpose.  , Sally  continued  to  rail  at  me 
and  mine  for  imposing  on  her  family,  beguiling 
her  sister's  heart  with  the  worst  intentions,  and 
making  excuses  to  keep  the  girl  from  getting 
settled;  but  she  would  show  me  that  the  Joyces 
were  not  to  be  made  fools  of.  I had  better  not 
come  there  with  my  pretensions  again.  She 
would  lock  Rosanna  up  if  ever  she  spoke  or 
wrote  to  me  from  that  hour;  and  as  I sprang 
to  my  feet,  feeling  the  assault  past  endurance, 
she  uttered  a sharper  scream,  and  dropped  on 
the  floor  in  a fit.  There  was  the  usual  fright 
and  hurry  getting  her  to  bed,  poor  Rosanna  and 
Jeremy  all  the  while  begging  me  not  to  mind 
what  Sally  said.  It  was  just  her  way  to  work 
things  up  in  that  manner ; but  she  would  come 
to  herself  by-and-by.  I gave  them  what  assist- 
ance I could  ; went  over  the  whole  subject  with 
the  brother,  when  she  was  safely  out  of  hearing,- 
and  the  younger  sister  watching  by  her  bedside 
in  the  adjoining  room.  Jeremy  was  sensible 
enough  to  see  the  difficulties  of  the  case,  and 
fully  agreed  in  my  views  of  duty ; but  I knew 
that  he  must  and  would  agree  with  Sally  for  all 
practical  purposes,  and  it  was  with  a weary, 
hopeless  heart  that  I went  down  stairs,  lighted 
by  Rosanna,  who  took  that  opportunity  to  talk 
with  me  in  private.  If  my  own  part  of  the 
business  was  hard,  it  was  nothing  to  hers,  shut 


up  with  and  under  the  dominion  of  that  unre- 
sisting, excitable,  despotic  sister,  with  her  res- 
olute whims  and  ever-recurring  fits.  My  poor 
girl  wept  sore,  leaning  on  my  shoulder  at  the 
top  of  the  steep  stair,  telling  me  there  was  no 
peace,  with  Sally  always  going  on  about  my 
being  in  no  haste  to  marry  her,  and  meaning 
nothing  but  deceit  and  villainy.  “ She  says 
there  are  plenty  of  better  men  I might  have, 
now  that  your  uncle  is  going  to  marry;  and 
won’t  do  any  thing  for  you  ; and  I am  sure 
I don’t  know  what  she  means ; but  you  won’t 
forsake  me  — you  won’t  break  my  heart,  Lu- 
cien  ?” 

I do  not  remember  half  of  all  I said  to  com- 
fort Rosanna.  My  own  heart  was  sore  and 
heavily  laden  ; there  seemed  no  outlet  from  the 
necessities  that  hampered  us — the  troubles  that 
warped  and  wore  away  our  lives ; and  what 
seemed  worse  than  all,  though  it  lay  unuttered 
in  my  mind,  was  a misgiving  that  our  marriage 
would  not  bring  us  happiness,  even  if  the  way 
were  clear.  I had  never  felt  so  before,  and  I 
tried  to  fling  off  the  feeling,  for  there  seemed  no 
reason  in  it.  Sally  Joyce  was  no  worse  pros- 
pect for  a sister-in-law  than  she  had  ever  been ; 
perhaps  her  whims  and  fits  were  on  the  increase, 
and  the  present  state  of  things  had  given  her  a 
gmighty  opportunity  to  be  troublesome.  Jeremy 
was  no  more  under  her  government  than  usual. 
It  was  his  destiny,  and  he  fulfilled  it,  poor  fel- 
low ! Rosanna  was  as  fair,  as  fond  as  ever,  and 
my  vows  and  protestations  of  truth  to  her  were 
repeated  in  all  honesty.  Her  face  was  clothed 
with  smiles  again,  when  Sally  began  to  moan  in 
the  inner  room,  and  I knew  it  was  unfitting  to 
stand  longer  on  the  stair ; yet,  when  I got  into 
the  street  and  felt  the  cool  air  upon  my-  brow, 
it  was  a positive  relief  to  get  away  from  all  the 
Joyces. 

I walked  quickly  out  of  the  Row,  taking  no 
heed  of  my  direction,  and  never  pausing  or  look- 
ing about  till  I found  myself  in  the  middle  of 
Curzon  Street.  The  rain  was  over,  and  had  left 
the  air  full  of  freshness  and  the  sky  full  of  stars, 
for  it  was  night  by  this  time — such  night  as  still 
comes  to  Mayfair  in  the  height  of  the  London 
season,  with  the  flare  of  lamps,  the  roll  of  car- 
riages, the  thunder  of  knockers,  and  the  sight 
of  ladies  in  full  dress.  Curzon  Street  seemed 
particularly  occupied  with  something  of  the 
kind,  and  I perceived  that  the  chief  attraction 
to  its  discerning  public  was  a mansion  on  the 
opposite  side,  lighted  up  from  basement  to  attic 
as  if  for  a grand  gala ; a double  line  of  carriages 
in  front,  which  every  minute  increased  with 
new  arrivals ; a confused  mingling  of  liveries 
and  flowers  half  seen  through  its  open  door,  as 
the  full-dressed  ladies  and  gentlemen  swept  in  ; 
and  a much  greater  confusion  of  commands,  re- 
monstrances, and  remarks,  between  the  attend- 
ant lackeys,  the  order-keeping  police,  and  the 
crowd  of  link-boys  and  lookers-on.  I paused, 
for  there  was  no  passing  till  the  fuss  subsided. 
I had  no  interest  in  the  Countess  of  This  or  the 
Marchioness  of  That,  on  whom  the  crowd  were 


48 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


making  tlieir  remarks,  loud  enough,  though  not 
always  complimentary,  as  the  great  people  de- 
scended and  disappeared;  yet  the  mansion  be- 
fore me,  blazing  with  festal  splendor,  and  getting 
so  full  of  company,  caught  my  mind  away  from 
its  private  troubles,  for  in  a servant  who  passed 
me,  made  his  way  through  the  crowd,  and  got 
in  at  the  open  door,  I recognized,  in  spite  of  his 
rich  livery,  the  grave,  silent  man  in  Eastern 
costume  who  had  ushered  me  into  the  presence 
of  Madame  Palivez. 

“Can  you  tell  me  to  whom  that  house  be- 
longs, sir?”  I said,  addressing  a gentleman  who 
stood  beside  me  among  the  more  respectable  por- 
tion of  the  gathering  on  the  pavement,  watching 
the  arrivals,  perhaps  waiting  to  pass,  but  evi- 
dently in  no  great  hurry,  for  he  stood  tapping 
the  flags  with  his  ratan,  and  humming  a theat- 
rical air  to  himself. 

“ It  belongs  to  the  great  banking  lady,  as  I 
suppose  one  may  call  her — Madame  Palivez. 
She  owns  the  Great  Bank  in  Old  Broad  Street 
— sole  owner,  and  director  too,  I understand. 
They  say  there  is  no  end  of  her  riches,  and  she 
is  giving  a ball  to-night,  you  see,  in  honor  of 
the  Russian  embassador  and  that  old  princess 
who  has  come  to  visit  him.” 

“Princess  Lievan,” said  I,  having  learned  so 
much  of  the  great  world  from  the  newspapers,  t 

“Yes,  that’s  her  name — a regular  old  witch 
to  look  at.  If  you  had  come  five  minutes  soon- 
er you  might  have  seen  her  get  out  of  the  car- 
riage. Not  much  of  a sight  for  one  to  miss, 
though ! Do  you  think  it  is  true  that  she 
had  a hand  in  taking  off  the  Russian  emperor’s 
father  ?” 

“It  is  hard  to  know  what  may  be  true  about 
court  ladies, ” said  I.  “Is  Madame  Palivez  sup- 
posed to  be  a friend  of  the  princess  ?” 

“ Oh  ! bless  you,  yes.  She  knows  all  that 
sort  of  people.  The  family  came  from  Russia, 
I understand,  though  they  are  of  Greek  origin ; 
but  Madame  is  hand  and  glove  with  all  the 
swells  — fashionables,  I mean — at  home  and 
abroad.  Money,  you  perceive,  answereth  all 
things  and  the  gentleman  did  something  be- 
tween a sigh  and  a swagger,  which  indicated  to 
me  that  the  article  in  question  was  not  plentiful 
with  him. 

His  appearance  had  caught  my  fancy  and 
made  me  address  the  man,  for  my  American 
breeding  gave  English  manners  a cold  and  re- 
pelling effect,  and  I found  myself  yet  a stranger 
in  the  land.  He  was  some  inches  less  than  my-, 
self,  but  substantially  built,  with  a fair  allow- 
ance of  bone  and  muscle.  He  was  some  years 
older,  too.  His  complexion  might  have  been 
fair,  but  was  bronzed  with  weather  and  travel ; 
his  hair  was  decidedly  auburn,  just  escaping  the 
red  ; his  bushy  whiskers  had  not  come  within 
the  saving  clause.  The  upper  half  of  his  face 
(that  is  to  say,  forehead  and  eyes)  was  hand- 
some and  expressive,  but  the  lower  was  coarse 
and  heavy.  On  the  whole,  there  was  more  of 
breadth  and  massiveness  than  beauty.  His 
dress  was  what  young  men  about  town  call 


swellish  — rings,  pins,  and  chains  beyond  the 
common  in  flash  and  quantity,  but  carelessly 
thrown  on,  with  a wrinkled  cravat,  and  shirt- 
front  out  of  order.  He  was  no  dandy,  but  he 
liked  finery,  and  looked  a gentleman  in  spite  of 
it,  though  to  what  order,  calling,  or  profession 
he  might  belong  it  were  hard  to  guess. 

There  was  a look  of  idleness,  of  being  without 
occupation,  and  not  knowing  what  to  do  with 
himself,  about  the  man  ; there  was  also  an  ap- 
pearance of  not  being  particular  where  he  went 
or  what  he  did,  yet,  withal,  such  an  expression 
of  honest,  simple  frankness,  resolute  courage, 
and  boundless  good-nature  in  his  face,  that  I 
felt  dratvn  to  him  on  first  sight.  He  was  the 
man  one  could  have  had  good  fellowship  with 
in  social  evenings,  good  help  from  in  desperate 
circumstances ; not  the  best  of  advisers,  not 
the  safest  of  companions,  perhaps,  yet  far  more 
ready  to  go  than  lead  astray ; and,  at  Avorst, 
given  only  to  play  in  the  puddles  or  slip  into 
the  mires  of  life,  never  to  dig  its  pitfalls  or 
spring  its  mines  for  others. 

He  stood  there  by  my  side,  talking  in  an 
easy,  friendly  fashion,  as  if  glad  to  find  some 
one  he  could  talk  and  linger  with,  making  off- 
hand strictures  on  such  of  the  magnificent  com- 
pany as  Ave  could  see  getting  out  of  their  car- 
riages ; and  Avhen  at  length  the  arrivals  ceased 
and  the  croAvd  began  to  give  way,  we  parted 
Avith  a civil  “ good -evening,”  and  I suav  him 
take  the  very  direction  by  Avhich  I had  ccme, 
and  Avalk  straight  into  Bolton  Roav. 

It  was  time  to  go  home,  and  home  I Avent, 
but  sloAvly,  and  with  many  a backAvard  look  at 
the  liglited-up  house,  and  the  croAvd  of  carriages 
in  front  of  it.  That  Avas  Madame  Palivez’s  West 
End  mansion,  where  she  Avas  at  home  and  Avent 
out  in  the  season.  What  wealth  it  must  re- 
quire to  support  such  an  establishment,  to  give 
such  expensive  entertainments ! and  how  would 
the  mere  outlay  of  that  evening,  the  mere  equip- 
ments of  one  carriage  full,  jewelers’  work  con- 
sidered, break  doAvn  the  barrier  between  Ro- 
sanna and  me,  and  bring  us  happily  to  com- 
mence housekeeping  together ! The  unequal 
division  of  things  never  pressed  so  heavily  on 
my  mind  before.  And  then  Avhat  riches  must 
be  at  the  disposal — in  the  command  of  that  one 
solitary  Avoman,  without  heirs  or  relations,  for 
every  body  said  Madame  Avas  the  last  of  the 
Palivez ! 

Why  did  she  live  unmarried?  It  was  not 
for  want  of  offers,  Avith  her  wealth  and  her 
beauty,  I thought,  getting  jput  of  Curzon  Street 
by  this  time  on  my  Avay  home.  What  made 
me  turn  back  to  get  another  look  at  the  man- 
sion? The  carriages  and  the  crowd  had  rather 
increased  with  the  coming  of  late  but  distin- 
guished guests,  I judged  by  the  bustle  they 
made  ; and  Avhen  elboAving  nearer  to  get  a bet- 
ter sight,  somebody  elbowed  me  a fierce,  sharp 
thrust,  as  if  the  arm-bone  had  a dagger  in  it, 
and  there,  leaning  against  a lamp-post,  shoving 
every  body  off,  but  looking  only  at  the  festal 
mansion,  I suav  Mr.  Esthers.  He  did  not  ob- 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


49 


serve  me  — perhaps  did  not  mean  to  observe. 
His  mind  was  preoccupied,  and  with  no  pleas- 
ant thoughts,  for  a stranger  who  saw  the  sharp- 
eyed  little  man  gazing  at  his  employer’s  house 
v#>uld  have  been  puzzled  to  say  whether  he  was 
taking  notes  to  report  in  some  hostile  and  ma- 
licious newspaper,  or  making  vituperative  ob- 
servations on  the  waste  of  his  own  patrimony. 


be  at  home  ; and  where  was  Esthers?  He  had 
slipped  away  through  the  crowd,  as  if  toward 
Madame’s  house,  but  there  I lost  sight  of  him  ; 
and  as  I entered  Bolton  Row  as  the  shortest  way 
back  to  Oxford  Street,  there  was  a man  knock- 
ing at  No.  5,  but  the  door  had  closed  upon  him 
before  I reached  it,  and  there  was  a bright,  and, 
to  me,  a mysterious  light  in  the  attic. 


And  there,  looking  at  the  festal  mansion,  was  Mr.  Esthers. 


I looked  at  him  in  wonder ; I looked  at  the 
house  too.  How  did  she  look  among  that  mag- 
nificent company?  No  doubt  as  queenly  as  I 
.had  seen  her  in  those  silent,  harem-like  rooms 
of  hers  behind  the  bank  in  Old  Broad  Street. 
How  was  she  dressed?  Was  there  any  chance 
of  her  being  seen  at  the  lighted  windows  ? 
What  business  was  that  of  mine  ? I ought  to 
D 


CHAPTER  XV. 

AN  ATTEMPTED  MURDER. 

I walked  home  through  the  cool  starlight 
night,  left  the  bustle  and  glare  of  the  West  End 
behind  me,  and  reached  our  own  remote  neigh- 
borhood, then  silent  with  country  quiet,  and 
sweet  with  the  breath  of  green  fields  and  bloom- 


50 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


ing  hawthprn.  There  was  the  little  house — an 
honest  and  respectable,  if  not  attractive  home, 
and  there  was  Rhoda  at  its  door,  looking  anx- 
iously out  for  her  gentleman-brother,  who  hap- 
pened to  be  later  than  usual. 

She  had  a welcome  for  me  as  kindly,  though 
it  was  not  given  with  Rosanna’s  eyes ; and 
when  I got  in,  there  was  my  grand-aunt,  poor 
old  Miss  Livy,  with  her  wrinkled  face,  slowly 
spinning  in  her  accustomed  corner,  and  Hannah 
Clark  knitting  quietly  on  a low  stool  by  her  side. 
The  old  woman  looked  up  and  smiled  as  I en- 
tered, and  the  dumb  gill  sprang  up  with  a joy- 
ful crow.  They  were  all  glad  to  see  me — that 
simple,  helpless  household  missed  me  when  I 
went  out,  and  waited  for  my  coming  home. 
Yet  I was  lonely  among  them,  and  likely  to  be 
so ; they  formed  a living  rampart  between  me 
and  Rosanna,  and  there  was  none  whom  I could 
take  into  confidence  on  that  matter.  I had  not 
the  heart  to  let  even  Rhoda  know  the  cause  of 
my  late  home-coming,  for  she,  too,  was  involved ; 
if  it  must  be  told  some  time,  it  could  be  post- 
poned now,  so  I gave  them  to  understand  that 
business  had  detained  me,  made  believe  to  eat 
my  supper,  and  undertook  to  lock  the  outer 
door  and  make  things  generally  safe,  when  they 
all  retired  to  bed,  and  left  me  with  candles  and 
papers  by  way  of  excuse  for  remaining  up  in  our 
little  sitting-room.  I had  risen  early,  and  been 
at  work  all  day,  but  the  scenes  of  the  evening 
had  banished  sleep  from  my  eyes,  and  there 
were  restless  thoughts,  that  seemed  to  have  no 
connection,  jostling  each  other  in  my  mind. 
Rosanna,  her  unlucky  life,  her  termagant  sister, 
my  solemn  engagement,  it  was  taking  the  shape 
of  a bond  ; yet  did  I not  love  the  girl  who  had 
so  long  loved  and  trusted  me  ? Then  my  poor 
relations,  the  impossibility  of  ever  providing  for 
them  and  being  able  to  marry.  I could  take 
counsel  of  nobody  who  would  approve  such  a 
wedding : not  Wilson  nor  Mr.  Forbes — they  were 
all  the  friends  I had,  and  might  help  me  in  spite 
of  disapprobation  ; but  I wanted  no  more  chari- 
ty. Over  and  over  the  subject  was  turned,  and 
ever  through  these  home  troubles  of  my  humble 
life  came  the  lighted  mansion  in  Curzon  Street, 
with  the  crowd,  the  carriages,  and  the  gay  com- 
pany sweeping  in.  Through  the  deep  silence 
of  the  sleeping  house  and  the  country  neighbor- 
hood I could  hear  in  fancy  the  sound  of  music 
and  dancing  from  that  distant  ball.  The  light 
and  splendor  of  those  brilliant  rooms  which  I 
had  never  entered  flitted  before  my  eyes  : the 
forms,  the  dresses,  and,  chief  of  all,  the  lady  of 
the  festival — how  did  she  look,  how  did  she 
dance  ? and  what  was  all  that  to  me  ? I could 
not  go  to  bed  ; I couldn’t  read  ; I could  not  fix 
on  any  course  of  conduct ; I could  not  write  to 
Melrose  Morton,  though  each  expedient  was 
tried  in  turn  as  the  hours  wore  away  and  my 
candle  burned  down.  It  would  soon  go  out, 
but  the  gray  light  of  the  morning  was  creeping 
in  through  my  window-shutters.  I opened  them 
and  looked  out : there  was  the  summer  daylight 
stealing  over  the  sky  in  its  early  whiteness,  the 


stars  were  going  down  behind  woods  and  hills, 
and  there  was  a rising  flush  in  the  east  right 
over  London.  The  last  of  the  carriages  would 
have  driven  away  by  this  time ; Madame  Palivez 
would  have  turned  out  of  her  deserted  ballrooirt, 
and  cast  off  dress  and  jewels,  weary  enough, 
no  doubt,  and  glad  to  go  to  sleep.  Was  that 
the  lark  I heard  waking  up  among  the  mead- 
ows ? There  was  no  use  in  me  going  to  sleep 
now  ; I felt  strangely  wakeful  and  active  ; and 
there  came,  I never  could  say  whence  or  why,  a 
sudden  impulse  to  go  out,  and  out  I went,  un- 
barring the  door,  and  closing  it  behind  me  as 
securely  and  quietly  as  possible.  The  morning 
air  was  fresh  and  cooling  ; I walked  on  through 
the  growing  light  and  dewy  fragrance,  heard  the 
lark  singing  far  above,  envied  his  free  life,  un- 
burdened with  thought  or  care,  custom  or  duty, 
as  many  a man  has  done.  He  had  his  love  and 
home  without  fear  of  inadequate  provision,  en- 
gagements or  obligations,  and  I had  a sister,  a 
grand-aunt,  and  Hannah  Clark,  not  to  speak  of 
Jeremy  and  Sally  Joyce,  in  prospect,  if  the  con- 
nection could  ever  become  possible.  I passed 
the  Notting  Hill  turnpike,  and  through  the  vil- 
lage street,  where  the  earliest  laborer  was  not 
yet  stirring.  I saw  Mr.  Forbes’s  house  lying 
gray  and  silent  among  its  grounds ; I looked  up 
the  hill-side  path  among  the  trees  where  the  lady 
had  alighted  and  the  horse  had  drunk  at  the 
stream.  I had  found  the  signet-ring  there 
which  kept  good  fortune  in  her  family  j strange 
notion,  and  strange  that  I should  find  it ! My 
steps  had  turned  in  the  direction  as  if  by  in- 
stinct ; I was  going  up  to  the  very  spot ; but 
what  sounds  were  those  far  up  the  winding 
path — growls,  scuffling,  the  tramp  of  a horse’s 
hoofs,  and  at  last  a human  voice  ? It  was  a 
man  saying  in  a hoarse  screech,  “You  murdered 
him  ! I know  you  did,  and  I’ll  finish  you,  you 
sorceress.” 

I rushed  to  the  spot  from  whence  the  voice 
proceeded,  and  there,  on  the  steepest  part  of  the 
hill,  where  the  path  was  narrowest  and  the  trees 
grew  thickest,  was  Madame  Palivez,  green  habit 
and  all,  mounted  on  her  Arab  horse,  and  urging 
the  noble  creature  with  all  her  might  to  strain 
away  from  a man  who  had  caught  by  the  bridle, 
which  had  partly  given  way  in  his  grasp,  and 
was  lunging  at  her  with  a long  sharp  knife. 
Another  thrust,  and  he  must  have  reached  her  ; 
but  I was  upon  him  before  he  was  aware,  seized 
his  uplifted  arm,  wrenched  the  knife  out  of  his 
hand,  flung  it  far  into  the  thicket,  and  hurled 
him  backward  to  the  ground,  rending  the  bridle- 
rein  at  the  same  moment,  and  setting  the  Arab 
free.  Away  it  bounded  like  an  arrow  ; but  I 
heard  Madame  cry,  “ Stop,  Zara!”  and  she  was 
again  by  my  side,  while  I tried  to  hold  the  man 
down.  He  was  a wild,  fierce  creature,  with 
ragged  clothes,  tangled  hair,  and  eyes  full  of  the 
fire  of  madness,  but  worn  to  skin  and  bone,  and 
not  my  match  in  strength.  Yet  it  was  a despe- 
rate struggle  for  some  minutes  : he  gnashed  his 
teeth,  tried  to  tear  me  with  his  long  nails,  and 
struck  out  his  heels  like  a vicious  horse.  “ For 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


51 


Heaven’s  sake  keep  off,  Madame!”  I cried,  as 
she  approached.  Her  face* was  deadly  pale,  yet 
there  was  more  of  resolution  than  fear  in  it. 

“Hold  him  if  you  can,”  she  said,  and  then 
up  went  a small  silver  bugle  to  her  lips,  and  a 
long  shrill  blast  made  the  park  about  us  ring; 
the  next  moment  I heard  the  sound  of  horses’ 
hoofs,  and  two  mounted  grooms  came  galloping 
up  the  hill.  She  made  a sign  to  one  of  them 
— it  was  the  silent  servant  Calixi — they  both 
sprung  from  their  horses,  seized  on  the  man, 
whom  I had  almost  mastered,  while  he  con- 
tinued to  gnash  his  teeth,  and  cry,  “You  mur- 
dered him ! I know  you  did,  you  sorceress.” 
“Leave  him  to  them,”  she  said,  motioning 
me  away.  “You  have  saved  my  life ; do  me 
one  other  service : go  home,  and  speak  nothing 
of  this  adventure  to  any  one  till  we  meet  again.” 
“ I will  obey  you  to  the  letter,  Madame  ; but 
may  I not  see  you  safe  to  your  villa  ?” 

“No,  no,”  she  said,  impatiently,  “there  is 
no  danger  now ; go  home,  and  do  not  speak  of 
it — I request — I entreat  you  !”  And  with  some 
words — I think  they  were  Greek— to  the  silent 
servant,  she  rode  rapidly  away. 

They  had  got  the  man  bound  with  some  of 
their  horse  gear,  and  silenced  too,  by  this  time : 
it  was  done  so  quietly  and  quickly  I could  not 
tell  how.  He  was  manifestly  mad;  yet  that 
silent  servant  had  some  mode  of  subduing  his 
fierceness.  I had  heard  him  whisper  something- 
in  a foreign  tongue  as  they  were  binding  the 
man,  whom  they  had  got  up  now,  and  Calixi 
was  marching  him  away ; I should  like  to  have 
known  where,  but  he  motioned  me  to  go,  ex- 
actly as  Madame  had  done,  and,  being  bound 
by  promise,  I left,  and  soon  lost  sight  of  them 
among  the  trees.  If  any  body  had  heard  the 
shrill  blast  of  that  silver  bugle  except  those  for 
whom  it  was  intended,  they  had  all  gone  to 
sleep  again  ; the  road,  the  village,  all  lay  silent 
in  the  early  morning  light ; nobody  at  home 
seemed  to  have  been  disturbed  by  my  going  out 
or  coming  in,  and  weary,  bewildered,  and  with 
some  bloody  scratches  on  my  face  and  hands,  I 
crept  up  to  my  own  bedroom  to  prevent  wonder 
or  observation  just  as  the  house-clock  struck 
four. 


CHAPTER  XYI. 

A SECRET  MEETING. 

Thankful  to  God  for  having  been  pre- 
served, and  for  being  able  to  serve  my  bene- 
factress, I had  slept  in  spite  of  the  daylight  and 
the  strange  adventure,  for  nature  was  worn  out 
— slept  too  deeply  for  dream  or  consciousness 
of  life  till  somebody  called  me  by  name.  It 
was  Rhoda  at  my  room  door,  with  “Lucien, 
dear,  it’s  half  past  eight,  and  I came  to  call  you, 
for  fear  of  your  being  too  late  for  the  bank.” 
“ Thank  you,  Rhoda ; I will  be  ready  in  five 
minutes.”  Ready  I was,  but  the  glass  showed 
me  grievous  evidences  of  that  fierce  struggle  on 
the  hill-side  path ; the  marks  of  the  wild  crea- 


ture’s claws  were  in  my  face  like  those  of  a 
mountain  cat.  I covered  them  as  well  as  I 
could  with  court-plaster  which  happened  to  be 
by  me,  and  I made  a point  of  telling  them  at 
breakfast  that  I had  cut  myself  accidentally 
with  my  razor. 

“ Goodness  be  about  us ! but  you  must  have 
done  it  in  styk^”  said  Miss  Livy,  surveying  my 
plastered  countenance ; “ that  shaving  is  a dan- 
gerous business,  Lucien  ; you  ought  to  take  bet- 
ter care.” 

“Aunt,  dear,  maybe  he  couldn’t,”  said 
Rhoda ; at  any  rate,  the  cuts  will  soon  get  well, 
as  every  cut  does  with  him.  Don’t  you  mind, 
when  we  were  all  at  home  in  Armagh,  he  near- 
ly took  his  thumb  off' whittling  sticks  with  the 
carving-knife,  and  it  was  well  in  no  time?” 

“Ay,  that  was  the  summer  before  Raymond 
went  off.  How  he  nursed  and  comforted  the 
child ! Who  would  have  thought  he  could  ever 
have  done  as  he  did  !”  Miss  Livy  would  have 
gone  on  with  reflections  on  that  subject ; she 
was  terribly  given  to  turn  to  it  in  those  latter 
years  of  hers  ; but  Rhoda  let  the  house-keys  fall 
— it  was  one  among  many  expedients  the  good 
girl  had  for  stopping  her — the  reproof  and  the 
defense  upon  it  got  over  the  rest  of  the  break- 
fast-time, and  then  my  untroubled  sister  saw  me 
out  at  the  door,  with  the  assurance  that  nobody 
could  help  cutting  themselves,  and  she  knew 
my  face  would  soon  be  well. 

The  girl  had  sense  enough  to  keep  the  secret ; 
but  I had  promised  not  to  tell  it,  though  it  was 
filling  all  my  thoughts.  I hoped  the  bank  peo- 
ple would  believe  something  about  the  razor, 
but  as  every  body  kept  their  distance  there,  no 
remarks  were  made,  and  Esthers  was  not  in  the 
office.  By  a City  man’s  wanting  to  see  him 
about  an  hour  after,  I found  out  that  he  was 
not  in  the  house,  and  the  forenoon  passed  with- 
out his  appearance.  Such  absence  was  very 
unusual  with  the  manager.  I noticed,  but  did 
not  regret  it ; there  was  more  leisure  to  specu- 
late on  the  event  of  the  early  morning,  which 
had  submerged  in  my  mind  all  that  passed  be- 
fore it.  Would  Esthers  be  made  acquainted 
with  it,  or  was  the  secret  to  be  kept  from  him 
too  ? Why  was  it  kept  at  all  ? and  who  could 
that  emaciated  maniac  be  ? What  were  his 
mad  motives  for  attacking  Madame  at  such  a 
place  and  time  ? I recalled  his  features ; they 
were  stamped  on  my  memory ; his  evident  in- 
sanity— his  strange  expressions  — “You  mur- 
dered him!  I know  you  did,  you  sorceress.” 
That  was  but'  the  raving  of  madness.  Nobody 
believed  in  sorcery  now ; and  murder — that  fine 
figure,  classic  face,  and  alabaster  hand,  all  tell- 
ing of  refined,  luxurious  life,  had  nothing  to  do 
with  crime  : it  was  clearly  madness.  Yet  why 
did  she  utter  no  cry  for  help,  and  only  spund 
the  summons  to  her  on-coming  servants  when 
his  knife  was  gone  and  the  maniac  could  do  lit- 
tle harm  ? Why  did  she  enjoin  me  not  to  speak 
of  it  “ till  we  meet  again  ?” 

Those  words  of  hers  kept  ringing  in  my  ears. 
When  would  that  meeting  be,  and  should  I get 


52 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


a full  explanation  then?  Come  what  would,  I 
should  try  to  get  one.  There  was  something 
in  the  man’s  voice  and  features  known  to  my 
memory,  but  how  or  where  they  had  been  met 
with  before  I could  not  imagine.  Would  it  all 
pass  as  the  finding  of  her  signet-ring  had  done  ? 
I was  determined  it  should  not,  however  un- 
handsome the  forcing  myself  into  her  secret 
might  appear.  I had  a concern,  an  interest 
in  it,  not  possible  to  explain  to  myself.  She 
said  I had  saved  her  life,  and  so  I had,  beyond 
a doubt.  The  great  lady  of  the  bank  and  of 
Mayfair  owed  me  that  obligation ; it  was  but  a 
lucky  chance,  a thing  I. ought  to  have  done,  yet 
my  heart  swelled  with  pride  at  the  recollection ; 
and  poverty,  my  grand-aunt,  and  Sally  Joyce 
were  forgotten. 

Weary  with  turning  over  these  puzzles,  not 
over-occupied  writh  my  work,  and  actively  sleep- 
less all  the  preceding  night,  I had  fallen  into  a 
doze  with  my  head  and  hands  leant  on  the  desk 
in  the  quiet  office,  sensible  only  of  the  heat  and 
hum  of  the  surrounding  city  in  the  summer 
afternoon,  when  the  door  creaked  and  somebody 
slipped  in.  It  was  Esthers  coming  back  with 
unusual  silence.  The  manager  was  a common 
apparition,  and  I was  not  afraid  to  be  caught 
dozing,  yet  the  first  look  of  his  face  made  me 
spring  to  my  feet  with  an  uncontrollable  im- 
pulse, for  it  explained  one  of  my  puzzles.  There 
was  the  resemblance  I had  seen  and  could  not 
understand  in  the  man  on  the  hill-side.  It 
could  not  be ; it  was  not  the  same  face ; the 
tangled  hair,  the  wild  eyes,  the  rags  and  ema- 
ciation made  a differerice,  but  my  eye  had  taken 
in  the  likeness  and  could  not  get  quit  of  it. 
Contrary  to  his  general  custom,  Mr.  Esthers 
made  no  remark  on  my  confusion.  Something 
seemed  to  occupy  himself,  and  in  no  pleasant 
manner;  he  said  good-day  civilly,  sat  down  in 
his  place,  began  to  work  on  the  bank-books 
with  great  application ; but  I heard  him  sigh  as 
he  turned  the  pages — by-the-bv  he  ground 'his 
teeth  also,  and  muttered  to  himself  “One’s  own 
turn,  perhaps.”  Toward  evening  he  got  into 
his  old  way,  chatted  with  me  familiarly  on 
matters  of  business,  and  gave  me  to  understand 
in  an  easy,  off-hand  manner,  that  he  had 
been  out  all  the  morning  on  Madame’s  affairs. 
There  was  no  allusion  to  the  ball  in  Curzon 
Street,  at  which  I had  seen  him  cast  such 
malign  looks — not  the  slightest  to  the  tragical 
event  that  followed  it,  though  every  glance  and 
movement  reminded  me  of  the  man  clutching 
the  broken  bridle  and  lunging  with  the  long  sharp 
knife.  It  was  not  he,  yet  it  was  like  him,  and 
Esthers  could  not  be  in  the  secret,  or  he  would 
have  known  my  part  in  it,  and  made  some  ill- 
natured  remark ; the  clerk  that  saved  his  supe- 
rior lady’s  life  would  not  have  been  a pleasing 
subject  to  our  manager.  Let  me  confess  that  I 
lingered  on  the  road  that  warm  bright  evening 
in  hopes  of  hearing  the  Arab’s  hoofs  and  seeing 
the  green  habit,  as  if  that  had  been  her  ren- 
dezvous. I had  no  notion  of  her  being  fright- 
ened from  it  or  any  thing  else  by  her  adventure 


on  the  hill-side  path  ; there  was  a look  of  calm 
and  resolute  courage  above  that  of  most  men 
mingling  with  her  feminine  beauty  ; but  neither 
hoof  nor  habit  came.  I chid  myself  for  losing 
time  in  such  foolish  expectations,  and  went 
home  to  get  a good  night’s  rest. 

Next  day  was  Saturday,  when  the  bank  closed 
early.  I was  accustomed  to  go  to  Mr.  Forbes’, 
and  Esthers  and  our  Jewish  clerks  to  the  Syna- 
gogue ; they  kept  only  the  fag  end  of  their  own 
Sabbath,  and  played  ninepins  most  of  the  Chris- 
tian Sunday.  The  bank  was  closed,  and  I was 
in  the  middle  of  Threadneedle  Street,  looking 
for  a coach  to  get  home  quickly  and  be  dress- 
ed in  time  for  dinner  at  Notting  Hill  House, 
when  a voice  behind  said  in  my  very  ear,  “ Ma- 
dame Palivez  will  be  glad  to  see  the  signor 
half  an  hour  hence,  if  he  will  go  to  the  Greek 
Coffee-house  in  Finsbury  Pavement,  and  wait 
till  her  messenger  comes.” 

“ Happy  to  obey  Madame’s  commands,”  said 
I,  looking  around  at  Calixi.  He  disappeared 
through  the  crowd,  and  I made  my  way  to  the 
old  Greek  Coffee-house. 

There  were  only  two  or  three  Russians  there, 
smoking  and  making  some  bargain.  I sat  down 
in  the  identical  box  where  I had  sat  on  Christ- 
mas-day,  and  heard  Wilson  tilling  my  own  sad 
family  secret. 

It  was  only  Midsummer  now,  yet  what  events 
had  thickened  around  my  life  since  then — the 
last  having  far  the  firmest  hold  on  my  mind.  It 
was  little  more  than  twenty  minutes  by  the 
clock,  but  it  seemed  hours  to  me  till  Calixi 
came  to  me.  He  came  with  the  merest  sign, 
and  I rose  and  followed  him  out  of  the  coffee- 
house, and  across  the  Pavement,  and  into  the 
labyrinth  of  small  narrow  streets  which  lay  be- 
tween the  back  of  Madame’s  bank  and  Finsbury. 
They  were  more  numerous  and  intricate  in  that 
direction  at  that  period  than  at  present ; fires  and 
improvements  have  done  a good  deal  to  alter  the 
neighborhood,  and  between  them  swept  away  an 
ancient  Greek  church  and  its  cemetery  which 
stood  at  the  intersection  of  Winch  and  Bloom- 
field Streets,  so  closely  hemmed  in  by  old 
houses  that  only  a narrow  and  almost  dark- 
ened passage  between  them  and  the  church  wall 
gave  entrance  to  the  burying-ground.  This 
was  our  way,  one  of  whose  existence  I had 
never  dreamt.  The  houses  were  mostly  stores 
belonging  to  Greeks,  Jews,  and  Russians,  who 
then  kept  their  depots  in  that  quarter:  their 
back  windows,  which  would  have  lookfed  into 
the  church-yard,  were  all  shut,  and  seemed  to 
have  been  so  for  years ; it  was  overgrown  with 
long  grass,  weeds,  and  nettles,  as  silent  and  shut 
out  from  the  world  as  if  it  had  been  in  the 
midst  of  a forest.  Funerals  could  not  have 
been  frequent  there,  for  there  were  no  new 
graves  to  be  seen  ; the  church  was  ruinous,  par- 
ticularly in  the  rear ; the  green  moss  grew 
thick  upon  its  walls,  and  sparrows  flew  out  and 
in  through  its  broken  windows.  Right  opposite, 
and  bounding  the  church-yard,  there  rose  a 
wall  high  and  massive  enough  to  be  the  out- 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


53 


work  of  a castle.  As  we  approached  it,  I 
noticed  a beaten  path  through  the  thick-grow- 
ing weeds,  which  led  straight  to  a narrow  door 
hung  on  stone  lintels  and  bound  with  iron  ; here 
my  guide  paused,  inserted  a small  key  in  the 
lock,  turned  it  without  noise,  and  a^nitted  me 
into  one  of  the  most  beautiful  conservatories  I 
have  ever  seen. 

It  must  have  been  a kind  of  court-yard  orig- 


the  transition  from  the  old  overgrown  church- 
yard was  so  unexpected  and  surprising ; but 
with  the  same  grave,  immovable  face  he  con- 
ducted me  up  a broad  stair,  steps  and  banister 
of  white  marble,  to  an  upper  conservatory,  and 
thence  into  the  Eastern-like  saloon  where  I had 
my  first  audience  of  Madame  Palivez. 

There  she  sat,  not  now  in  purple  velvet,  but  a 
summer  dress  of  fine  India  muslin  striped  with 


“ — when  a voice  behind  said  in  my  very  ear — ’ 


inallv,  but  was  roofed  with  glass  of  all  colors, 
through  which  the  sunshine  fell  in  broken 
and  brilliant  rainbows  on  the  white  marble 
floor,  adorned  with  statues,  fountains,  and  vases 
of  porcelain,  Bohemian  glass,  and  alabaster,  in 
which  all  manner  of  exotic  plants,  shrubs,  and 
even  orange-trees  were  growing.  I think  the 
silent  servant  enjoyed  my  look  of  amazement — 


gold,  made  in  a fashion  which  no  milliner  in 
Mayfair  could  have  tolerated;  I knew  that, 
slight  as  was  my  acquaintance  with  ladies’ ware. 
It  was  a classic  robe,  its  folds  gracefully  fitted  to 
her  full  but  perfect  figure'  and  bound  round  the 
waist  with  a broad  purple  sash.  Her  long, 
abundant  hair  was  more  loosely  braided  for  the 
summer-time,  and  instead  of  the  gold  net  and 


54: 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


pins  she  wore  a wreath  of  the  white  japonica, 
which  I think  was  natural. 

“ Good-evening,  my  friend,”  she  said,  extend- 
ing her  white  hand  with  the  signet-ring  on  it, 
while  the  loose  Greek  sleeve  showed  me  a beau- 
tifully rounded  arm  and  filigree  gold  bracelets ; 
“I  may  well  call  you  so,  after  the  service  ren- 
dered me  so  lately.  Do  be  seated,”  and  she 
pointed  to  an  opposite  sofa. 

I had  come  determined  to  get  things  explain- 
ed, but  the  scene,  the  lady,  somehow  took  me 
off  my  guard.  I sat  down,  saying  nothing,  and 
feeling  that  I had  nothing  to  say.  But  Madame 
had  something,  and  went  on  : “ You  came  most 
opportunely;  the  unfortunate  man  certainly 
would  have  killed  me ! He  is  insane,  you  are 
aware  ; has  been  in  a lunatic  asylum  for  nearly 
seven  years,  and  made  his  escape  about  the 
middle  of  last  week.  Our  house,  owing  to  spe- 
cial family  arrangements,  is  charged  with  his 
guardianship  ; hence  his  hatred  to  myself : it 
is  a common  effect  of  madness  to  make  people 
hate  all  in  authority  over  them,  is  it  not?” 

“I  believe  it  is,  Madame ; and  he  is  evident- 
ly mad.”. 

“Yes,  it  is  the  misfortune — the  heir-loom  of 
his  family”  — she  spoke  slowly  and  with  cold 
composure — “a solemn,  silent,  melancholy  mad- 
ness, subject  to  sudden  fits  of  violence,  and  sure 
to  sink  into  the  lowest  type- of  idiotcy.” 

“A  sad  heir-loom  indeed,  Madame.” 

“ Yes,  young  man.  Would  all  the  wealth  of 
London  make  you  wish  to  belong  to  such  a fam- 
ily ?” 

“ Certainly  not” — it  was  from  my  heart — 
“but  does  the  insanity  descend  to  them  all?” 

“All,  to  the  utmost  generation,  root  and 
branch,  with  little  modification,  except  in  the 
matter  of  time.” 

“He  is  remarkably  like  Mr.  Esthers,”  said 
I,  gathering  up  my  resolution. 

“ He  is,”  said  Madame,  without  the  slightest 
emotion,  and  there  was  something  in  her  eyes 
I could  not  question;  “it  is  not  possible  to 
account  for  these  resemblances.  He  has  been 
restored  to  the  asylum — a proper  and  humanely 
managed  one — to  my  certain  knowledge.  Being 
insane,  his  attack  on  me  is  a matter  to  be  passed 
over  and  forgotten,  certainly  not  to  be  spoken 
of  for  the  benefit  of  idle  gossips  and  the  vexation 
of  unfortunate  relatives.  There  are  few  fami- 
lies that  have  not  some  serpent’s  nest,  as  they 
say  in  Asia — a skeleton  in  the  closet,  as  Europe- 
ans say,”  and  she  looked  me  keenly  in  the  face. 

My  family  history  was  known  to  that  great 
ladv,  and  I could  only  answer,  “ It  is  true.” 

“For  that  reason,  I requested  you  to  keep 
silence  on  the  subject ; and,  now  that  we  have 
met,  I believe  that  I can  depend  on  your  dis- 
cretion.” 

“ You  may,  Madame  ; if  you  think  it  advisa- 
ble that  the  matter  should  not  be  spoken  of,  I 
am  not  the  person  who  would  or  should  make  it 
public.” 

“ I believe  you,”  she  said,  “most  sincerely  ; 
but  tell  me  one  thing — how  did  you  happen  to 


be  so  early  abroad,  and  in  such  good  time  for 
me  ?” 

“ I could  not  sleep,  Madame,  and  went  out 
to  get  the  air.” 

“Not  sleep  at  your  time  of  life,  my  friend! — 
oh,  but  our  sleep  is  broken  early  and  often  be- 
fore we  come  to  the  long  one.  You  walked  a 
good  way ; it  was  a pleasant  morning ; I was 
riding  alone  to  my  villa,  and  had  bidden  the 
servants  follow,  not  knowing  he  was  out.  It 
was  strange  that  I could  not  find  my  bugle  till 
you  came  up,  and  I would  not  blow  till  you  took 
the  knife ; he  might  have  attacked  and  killed 
some  of  them.” 

“Better  than  you,  Madame.” 

“ No ; they  have  relations,  friends,  who  would 
miss  them,  and  nobody  would  miss  me.” 

“Madame,  you  can  not  think  so,  with  all 
your  advantages  and — ” 

“Wealth  you  mean.”  It  was  beauty  I had 
been  going  to  say,  but  I added,  “ Yes,  that  is  a 
great  help  to  one’s  being  missed.” 

“Oh  no,  my  friend,  it  remains  behind  us; 
all  it  could  buy — all  it  could  bribe  for  us — hon- 
or, influence,  fashion,  luxury,  they  are  left  to  go 
with  it  to  others — to  enemies ; and  we  must  go 
to  the  clay.” 

She  spoke  in  a dreary,  hopeless  tone,  that 
smote  me  to  the  heart.  I had  known  the  varied 
ills  of  poverty ; was  this  the  one  great  woe  of 
riches,  that  people  must  die  and  leave  them  ? 
They  had  told  me  that  all  the  Palivez  died 
at  middle  age ; yet  it  was  only  speaking  my 
thoughts  when  I said,  “There  is  a long  way  be- 
tween you  and  the  clay  yet,  Madame.” 

“There  is  not — there  can  not  be ; young 
man,  you  do  not  know  that  there  are  evils  which 
make  us  fly  to  it — evils  which  no  wealth  can 
bribe  away,  no  success  atone  for — which  cling 
to  us  and  ours  in  spite  of  honor  and  fortune — 
black  shadows  cast  over  all  our  days,  on  all  our 
sunny  mornings  and  festive  nights,  coming  on 
to  meet  us  in  palpable  shape  as  we  advance 
along  the  path  of  years,  and  no  turning  from 
them  but  that  which  leads  down  to  dust  and 
darkness.” 

Alas  ! tjiis  woman — beautiful  and  fair — rich 
above  almost  all — learned,  revered,  beloved — 
had  no  other  faith  than  this ! 

She  was  speaking  slowly,  calmly,  but  in  such 
a tone  as  that  in  which  the  night-wind  wailing 
through  ruins  speaks  to  one’s  fancy.  Never 
were  my  senses  so  utterly  confounded  and  set  at 
variance  as  to  hear  that  beautiful  woman,  in  her 
gay  summer  dress  and  rich  surroundings,  speak 
words  of  such  mysterious  and  terrible  import. 
There  was  something  ghastly  and  spectral  in 
the  contrast — it  was  the  skeleton  at  the  feast, 
and  an  indefinite  fear  came  over  me ; some- 
thing like  the  feeling  with  which  I woke  at 
night  from  dreams  of  my  lost  brother.  What 
black  shadows  could  she  mean  ? Was  the  wom- 
an speaking  of  herself,  of  her  own  experience,  or 
only  of  things  which  she  had  read  or  heard  of — 
which  her  imagination  dwelt  on,  in  that  isolated 
life  she  pleased  to  lead,  its  hours  not  all  filled 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


55 


up  with  bank  business  or  fashion  ? She  sat 
there  before  me,  wearing  the  same  fixed  look 
with  which  she  had  spoken  so  darkly ; no  agi- 
tation, no  excitement  in  the  beautiful  intellect- 
ual face,  but  it  had  grown  stony  and  statuesque, 
reminding  me  somehow  of  the  sphinx,  and 
gazing  at  me  as  if  she  expected  an  answer. 

“ I can  not  understand  you,  Madame  ; there 
are  evils  in  life  which  money  can  not  buy  off,  I 
know — bad  health,  personal  afflictions,  and  the 
like  ; but  what  can  you  have  to  complain  of — 
young,  handsome,  and  happily  situated  as  you 
are  ?” 

“ I am  not  young  in  the  reckoning  of  one  at 
your  years;  but  we  will  speak  of  something 
more  interesting,”  she  said,  with  sudden  state- 
liness— the  lady  of  the  bank  addressing  her  clerk 
onctf  more ; “ you  have  done  me  a great  and 
uncommon  service ; it  is  my  desire  as  well  as 
my  duty  to  reward,  that  is,  to  acknowledge  it ; 
tell  me  in  what  way  I can  do  so  most  useful  or 
agreeable  to  you.” 

I had  been  thrown  back  for  miles  by  the  first 
queenly  word  and  look.  She  had  encouraged 
me  to  forget  myself,  and  I had  done  it.  Was 
it  for  that  she  had  brought  me  there,  and  got 
into  familiar  talk?  The  mistress  of  the  bank 
should  see  that  I had  been  born  a gentleman, 
and  was  not  to  be  rewarded  or  paid  for  service 
like  her  groom ; a free  man  also,  not  to  be 
drawn  out  at  her  pleasure  or  sport,  and  sent 
back  into  his  corner  again,  like  one  of  the  East- 
ern slaves  to  whom  she  was  accustomed. 

“Madame  Palivez,”  said  I,  and  the  opposite 
mirror  showed  me  that  there  was  full-blown 
pride  and  suppressed  anger  in  the  look  I gave 
her,  straight  in  the  face,  “I  expect  and  will 
receive  no  reward  for  what  you  are  good  enough 
to  call  my  service.  I did  nothing  on  that  occa- 
sion but  what  an  honest  man  should  have  done 
for  any  lady — any  person  in  like  peril ; mere 
accident  brought  me  to  the  spot,  and  I am  glad 
that  my  early  walk  enabled  me  to  be  of  some 
use  to  you.” 

I had  risen  at  the  conclusion  of  my  speech, 
determined  to  take  leave  at  once,  but  she  held 
out  her  hand  and  said,  with  a look  of  arch  famil- 
iarity altogether  irresistible,  “My  dear  fellow, 
you  are  a fool.  Allow  me  to  tell  you,  you  will 
never  get  on  in  this  world  without  putting  a 
proper  value  on  your  own  performances,  and 
getting  profit  out  of  them.  Sit  down  there,  and 
don’t  be  in  such  a hurry  to  take  fire  when  one  only 
wants  to  acknowledge  one’s  obligation.  We 
rich  people  can  not  allow  ourselves  to  be  in  such 
debt  without  giving  a testimonial — an  I O U of 
some  sort,  you  understand.  Sit  down ; stay  to 
dinner  with  me,  like  a good  boy.” 

She  positively  directed  me  back  to  my  seat 
with  the  extended  hand  which  I had  taken  in- 
stinctively— what  a firm  clutch  those  fine  taper 
fingers  had ! — and  I sat  down,  feeling  that  the 
world  was  made  new  between  us ; we  were  back 
on  the  old  footing  of  intimacy,  almost  of  friend- 
ship ; it  was  another  turn  of  her  game,  but  I 
did  not  see  the  move. 


I wag  engaged  to  dine  with  Mr.  Eorbes  and 
his  daughter;  I knew  they  would  expect  me  bv 
this  time.  Helen  would  be  sitting  at  work  and 
looking  out  of  the  bay  window,  as  I had  seen 
her  many  a Saturday  evening ; her  father  would 
be  wondering,  the  dinner  would  be  waiting ; but 
I forgot  all  that,  and  when  she  repeated,  “Do 
stay  to  dinner,”  I merely  answered,  “Madame, 
I am  not  dressed.”  It  was  all  that  would  come 
out  from  the  tumult  of  my  thoughts.  “ Never 
mind,”  said  Madame  ; “ I have  seen  people  dine 
in  all  sorts  of  dresses,  and  yours  seems  as  good 
as  the  most  of  them.  We  are  not  in  Mayfair, 
thank  Heaven ! and  need  not  be  afraid  of  the 
butler  and  footman  ; you  can’t  be  more  fastid- 
ious than  a lady,  you  know;  stay  and  dine 
with  me ; I really  can  not  part  with  you  this 
evening.” 

What  answer  but  one  of  acceptance  could  be 
made  to  that  ? I know  not  in  what  words  mine 
was  given,  but  I staid.  There  was  no  more 
talk  about  the  service  or  the  reward — no  farther 
allusion  to  the  black  shadows.  She  was  gay, 
friendly,  and  entertaining;  showed  me  through 
her  rooms — a handsome  suite  they  were,  all  fur- 
nished in  the  same  half  Oriental  fashion,  com- 
paratively empty  to  an  English  eye ; the  low 
sofas,  small  tables,  and  richly-wrought  cushions 
scattered  here  and  there,  would  not  have  been 
thought  sufficient  to  furnish  a well-to-do  trades- 
man’s back  parlor,  as  far  as  quantity  -went ; but 
every  thing  was  of  the  finest  workmanship  and 
material : mirrors  and  hangings,  pictures  and 
statues  were  there,  not  numerous,  but  of  rare 
excellence  y and  I remarked  that  all  the  objects 
of  art  were  either  antiques  or  by  the  old  masters. 
They  had  been  collected  from  far  climes  and 
ages  ; there  were  curtains  worked  in  the  old 
Byzantine  looms,  when  silk  was  the  monopoly 
of  the  Greek  Empire,  and  bought  for  its  weight 
in  gold  by  Western  princes ; there  were  vases 
from  Etruscan  tombs,  amber  cups  made  in  Nov- 
gorod, with  the  Palivez  crest  upon  them  — a 
broken  crown,  and  the  Greek  motto  graven  on 
the  inside  of  her  ring,  she  said,  “Suffer  and 
reign.”  There  were  ornaments  of  malachite, 
opal,  and  gold  from  the  Uralian  mines,  ivory 
images  carved  in  Kamtschatka,  and,  chief  of 
all,  the  marble  gods  and  graces  of  the  antique 
world.  My  connoisseurship  was  small,  but  I 
alvtays  knew  the  beautiful,  and  had  never  seen 
so  much  of  it  before.  She  showed  me  all ; told 
me  curious  particulars  of  them  and  their  adven- 
tures ; how  they  had  come  into  her  hands,  what 
previous  owmers  and  travels  they  had,  the  times 
and  countries  to  which  the  most  ancient,  or 
strange  to  me,  belonged.  There  wras  something 
remarkable  or  amusing  repeated  about  every  one 
except  a picture  which  seemed  to  me  somew-hat 
out  of  place : it  was  a full-length  portrait  of  a 
woman  in  an  ancient  and  foreign  costume,  rich 
furs,  and  massive  jewels,  with  a face  of  the  de- 
cidedly Tartar  type,  undoubted  Calmuck,  a high, 
stiff  cap,  made  of  gold  plates  and  black  fox- 
skins,  on  her  head,  and  a look  of  silent,  solemn, 
concentrated  anger.  The  picture  was  hung  in 


56 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


a conspicuous  place  in  Madame’s  largest  and 
handsomest  saloon,  rich  in  art,  and  opening  on 
the  conservatory ; close  by  it  stood  an  antique 
statue,  a draped  figure,  with  a face  of  which  one 
could  hardly  say  that  it  belonged  to  boy  or 
maiden : young  it  was,  but  sternly  beautiful. 
The  one  hand  clutched  a weapon,  and  the  other 
a cup  half  concealed  by  its  robe ; the  head  was 
crowned  with  a garland  of  cypress;  and  Ma- 
dame said,  “ It  is  the  Athenian  Nemesis,  taken 
from  her  temple  when  they  made  a Christian 
church  of  it,  in  the  middle  of  the  fourth  century, 
and  saved  from  destruction  with  much  difficulty 
— for  the  new  creed  was  most  hostile  to  that 
goddess — by  an  ancestor  of  mine  who  lived  and 
died  a pagan,  and  left  it,  with  other  heir-looms, 
to  our  house.”  But  she  made  no  remark  on 
the  picture,  and  I could  not  venture  to  inquire 
into  its  history. 

We  went  to  dinner  in  the  conservatory,  for 
the  evening  was  sultry.  Her  servants  had  ar- 
ranged the  orange-trees  and  foreign  shrubs, 
under  which  they  spread  the  low  table,  covered 
with  the  whitest  linen,  and  glittering  with  crys- 
tal and  gold,  and  fragrant  with  rich  wines, 
fruits,  and  flowers.  It  was  a dinner  I had  never 
seen  the  like  of;  no  want  of  English  viands  of 
the  best,  but  most  of  the  dishes  were  foreign, 
and  I noticed  that  while  she  pressed  me  to  every 
thing,  Madame  herself  dined  on  pastry  and 
fruit.  Calixi  and  sundry  silent  servants  wait- 
ed, carved,  and  retired,  till  summoned  again  by 
a bunch  of  small  silver  bells,  in  the  form  of  so 
many  roses,  which  lay  at  Madame’s  right  hand. 
We  sat  opposite  to  each  other  on  the  low,  light 
sofas,  which  seemed  her  favorite  seats.  I did 
my  best  to  be  entertaining,  and  hope  I suc- 
ceeded sometimes,  though  the  duty  of  behaving 
like  a gentleman  was  the  only  thing  that  made 
me  speak  at  all.  I felt  like  Alcibiades  in  the 
company  of  Socrates.  I could  have  sat  there 
forever,  and  grown  old  in  listening  to  her  talk. 
How  like  new  wine  it  was  to  me,  so  full  of  in- 
tellectual life,  of  travel,  of  observation,  of 
knowledge ! how  free  from  care  or  trammels, 
as  if  nothing  had  ever  hampered  her  in  wish  or 
thought,  and  into  what  a world  of  light  and 
gaycty  it  transported  me!  We  talked  of  books, 
of  foreign  places  she  had  seen,  and  fashionable 
people  she  associated  with  in  Mayfair.  She 
pressed  me  to  the  wine,  told  me  anecdotes  of  its 
age  and  quality ; there  was  some  that  had  been 
made  in  Cyprus  in  the  Crusading  time — some 
that  a Turkish  vizier  had  drunk  too  much  of  at 
the  siege  of  Rhodes.  I drunk  because  she  bid 
me,  and  thought  the  Turk  excusable,  though 
his  Koran  stood  in  the  way,  but  I did  not  quite 
follow  his  example.  She  had  poured  out  a glass 
for  me  with  her  own  fair  hands : “Will  you  not 
drink  my  health?”  she  said,  with  a smile  which 
seemed  to  light  up  the  wine  with  the  sun  of  its 
native  summers;  “you  have  not  done  so  yet.” 

‘ ‘ It  was  not  for  want  of  wishing  it,  Madame.” 

“I  believe  in  your  good  wishes — you  have 
proved  them  by  good  service ; but  ladies  always 
demand  pledges  of  their  true  knights.  Will 


I you  do  me  a service  more,  and  we  will  be 
| friends — good  and  faithful  friends,  without 
pride  or  misunderstanding?” 

“I  would  do  any  thing — any  thing  in  the 
world  to  serve  you,  Madame.”  Was  I going  to 
j be  trusted  with  the  entire  secret  ? was  I to  be 
sent  any  where  on  her  service?  The  words 
were  from  my  heart  out. 

“Well,  what  I ask  is  in  your  power,  and  will 
serve  me.  Will  you  give  me  your  word  of 
honor  as  a gentleman,  which  I know  you  are  bv 
nature  and  descent — yes,  La  Touche  is  an  an- 
cient name  among  the  nobles  of  Normandy,  and 
your  ancestors  came  into  Ireland  with  the  Fitz- 
i geralds  and  De  Lacys — all  the  Palivezi  have 
studied  genealogy,  but  that  is  not  to  my  pur- 
pose. Will  you  promise  me  never  to  mention 
to  man  or  woman,  myself  included,  the  chance 
scene  you  saw  and  shared  in  at  the  dawn  of 
Friday  morning,  or  any  thing  concerning  it?” 
Was  this  all?  and  why  wras  it?  I dared  not 
question ; but  I said,  with  a good  deal  of  sur-' 
prise  and  disappointment,  “I  promise  you  that, 
Madame,  on  the  honor  of  a gentleman.” 

“ Give  me  your  hand  in  pledge,”  she  said, 
extending  her  own. 

Our  hands  met  above  the  wine,  and  the  clasp 
went  to  my  heart.  How  firm  and  friendly  it 
was ! I felt  my  fingers  lingering  upon  hers,  but 
she  hastily  withdrew  them,  rang  for  coffee,  and 
asked  me  whether  I preferred  the  face  of  the 
Venus  or  the  Diana  which  stood,  one  on  either 
side,  among  the  orange-trees.  I think  my  an- 
swer was  that  I did  not  know;  on  which  she 
laughed  at  me,  and  said  many  a man  did  not 
know  his  own  preferences.  The  rest  of  our 
conversation  I can  not  recall,  except  that  it  was 
about  styles  of  beauty.  It  is  my  belief  that  I 
was  not  very  bright  on  it.  But  at  last  I saw 
her  looking  at  the  time-piece — by-the-by,  it  was 
of  old  Venetian  make,  very  richly  wrought,  and 
of  a quaint  device:  a veiled  figure  showed  the 
hours ; as  they  progressed,  the  veil  was  slowly 
withdrawn,  but  the  first  half  revealed  the  profile 
of  a beautiful  woman,  and  the  second  that  of  a 
skeleton.  She  looked  at  the  time-piece.  I saw 
it  was  late,  and  rose  to  go. 

“ Good-night !”  she  said,  giving  me  her  hand 
without  rising;  “but  one  word  before  we  part. 
We  have  agreed  to  be  friends  without  pride  or 
misunderstanding,  have  we  not?” 

“Certainly,  Madame.” 

“ Well,  then,  the  first  requisite  of  friendship 
is  plain  speaking.  Should  you  like  to  come  and 
see  me  on  honest,  equal  terms,  for  the  inter- 
change of  thought  and  mutual  help,  to  pass  the 
hours  that  might  otherwise  be  heavy  or  bar- 
ren?” 

“Nothing  would  give  me  greater  pleasure, 
Madame.” 

‘ ‘ Well,  but  understand  this  friendship  of  ours 
stands  apart  and  utterly  separated  from  our  pub- 
lic lives : there,  you  are  the  bank  clerk,  and  I am 
Madame  Palivez.  We  were  nothing  more  till 
within  the  last  month,  when  the  stars  brought 
us  nearer — whether  for  good  or  evil  I know  not 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


57 


yet,  but  I augur  well  from  your  finding  the  sig- 
net-ring.” 

“Madame,  I should  be  happy  to  be  your 
friend  on  any  terms.” 

I spoke  in  all  sincerity,  though  with  some 
surprise  at  the  strange  prudence  of  her  arrange- 
ment. It  might  not  have  worked  well  with 
every  one,  but  she  knew  her  man,  and  smiled 
kindly  on  me  as  she  answered,  “ Those  are  the 
only  terms  I have  to  offer.  We  meet  here,  or 
in  my  villa,  as  friends,  honest  and  equal ; in 
public,  we  keep  our  respective  stations.  What 
the  world  does  not  understand  should  never  be 
said  before  it,  and  friendship  is  a sacred  thing, 
not  to  be  wondered  about  and  misinterpreted  by 
common  minds.  Your  face  has  told  me  that 
you  understand  this,  or  I should  never  have 
spoken  it.” 

“I  do  understand  you,  and  will  keep  my 
share  of  the  compact.” 

“Yes,  that  is  a good  word  for  it.  You  will 
£eep  the  compact  honorably  in  spirit  and  in  let- 
ter, or  I have  not  read  your  countenance  cor- 
rectly ; and  if  so,  it  is  the  only  page  of  the  kind 
that  ever  foiled  me.  But  we  are  friends.  Good- 
night ! for  I know  it  is  late,  and  your  way  is 
long.” 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

RHODA  AND  LUCIEN. 

It  was  late  when  I got  home,  but  the  summer 
night  was  lovely,  and  a new  life  went  with  me 
through  the  busy  streets  and  quiet  suburban 
ways.  Madame  Palivez,  the  wonderful  woman 
whom  I had  heard  so  much  of,  whom  I had  been 
so  curious  about,  whom  I had  served  and  could 
not  take  reward  from,  had  chosen,  nay,  appoint- 
ed me  to  be  her  private  friend — to  come  and  see 
her  at  her  villa,  or  her  secluded  Eastern  rooms 
behind  the  bank,  for  the  interchange  of  thought 
or  the  passing  of  leisure  hours  on  honest,  equal 
terms,  of  which  the  world  was  to  know  nothing. 
Strange  as  it  may  appear,  there  was  no  part  of 
the  arrangement  in  which  my  mind  acquiesced 
so  fully  as  the  latter  clause.  I did  not  then 
know  why,  but  that  friendship  seemed  to  me  a 
fairy  treasure  not  to  be  profaned  by  vulgar  eyes 
or  comments,  and  more  securely  mine  because 
of  its  secrecy. 

Rhoda  opened  the  door  to  me  with  a face  of 
great  gladness  at  my  safe  return,  and  much 
wonder  where  I could  have  been. 

“You  are  come  at  last,  Lucien  dear.  I have 
had  your  supper  ready  these  two  hours,  and  got 
my  aunt  and  Hannah  to  bed  to  keep  them  from 
grumbling.  You  see,  my  aunt  got  into  quite 
a bad  way  when  Mr.  Forbes  sent  over,  about 
six  o’clock,  to  know  why  you  were  not  coming. 
It  was  his  own  footman,  Lucien ; and  he 
brought  us  such  a lovely  pheasant  for  to-mor- 
row’s dinner.  I am  so  sorry  I bought  that  bit 
of  mutton ; howensoever,  it  will  keep  till  Mon- 
day ; and  the  Forbes’  must  think  a good  deal  of 
you  to  send  so.  I was  very  sorry,  but  I could 


not  tell  them  where  you  were.  My  aunt  got 
bothered  about  it,  and  in  course  she  bothered 
the  house.” 

“I  am  sorry  too,  Rhoda,  but  I could  not  help 
it.  I was  detained  by  business  ” 

The  first  part  of  that  speech  was  as  true  as 
the  second  was  false.  My  heart  smote  me  for 
having  overlooked  and  broken  through  the  long 
and  friendly  engagement  of  my  Saturday  even- 
ings spent  at  Notting  Hill  House  when  no  other 
had  a welcome  for  me,  and  all  the  kindness  that 
my  family  had  received  from  that  quarter.  The 
Forbes’  missed  me — that  was  evident ; but  I had 
not  missed  them.  It  must  be  made  up  for  by 
apologies,  and  they  must  be  fibs,  every  word : 
that  was  the  first  consequence  of  the  compact  I 
had  made  so  wdllingly,  and  was  so  resolute  to 
keep. 

Poor  Rhoda  was  not  quite  convinced  of  my 
detention  by  business.  The  girl  had  some 
penetration,  though  she  could  never  learn  to 
spell ; the  reading  of  her  brother’s  face  was  a 
task  more  to  her  mind.  She  brought  up  the 
fat  pheasant  to  display  it  in  the  Forbes’  honor ; 
said  she  was  sure  they  must  have  been  disap- 
pointed ; and  it  was  a pity  the  bank  people  kept 
me  so  late,  for  I might  have  gone  over  and  told 
them  all  about  it.  “It  is  a fine  house  for  you 
to  go  to,  Lucien  dear,  and  I think  Miss  Forbes 
likes  to  see  your  face  as  well  as  her  father,”  and 
Rhoda  looked  knowing. 

“Miss  Forbes  is  friendly  to  us  all,  Rhoda, 
but  she  is  a rich  banker’s  daughter,  and  we  are 
poor  folks ; besides,  you  know,  I am  engaged  to 
Rosanna  Joyce.” 

“ Oh,  in  course,  I didn’t  mean  any  thing  but 
fun ; but  my  aunt  took  on  dreadful ; and,  Lu- 
cien dear,  you  would  not  be  going  to  bad  places, 
and  staying  out  nights,  as  she  says  young  men 
do  in  London?” 

“No,  Rhoda,  my  good  sister,  I would  not, 
never  did,  and  never  will,  whatever  my  aunt 
may  grumble  about.  You  know  she  is  an  old 
woman,  and  you  must  try  to  keep  her  quiet.  I 
can’t  always  explain  to  you  what  detains  me  ; 
there  may  be  causes  which  you  would  not  un- 
derstand now,  but  I will  tell  you  some  other 
time;  and  be  sure  of  one  thing,  that  however 
often  I go  out,  or  late  I may  stay,  it  will  not  be 
in  low  company  or  bad  places.” 

“Oh,  I know  you  are  too  gentle  for  that,  and  - 
too  good,  Lucien,”  said  mv  honest,  kindly  sister, 
looking  all  she  spoke.  What  would  have  been 
her  exultation  of  heart  had  she  known  that  my 
evening  was  spent,  as  many  were  likely  to  be, 
with  the  great  lady  of  the  bank  in  Old  Broad 
Street,  the  high  and  mighty  Madame  Palivez? 
Our  confidence  was  not  far  enough  advanced 
for  that  disclosure  ; but  she  left  me  with  a hap- 
py look,  fully  insured  against  the  bad  places, 
and  in  the  conviction  that  I would  make  all 
right  with  the  Forbes’. 

I took  early  precautions  for  that  purpose. 
There  was  a note,  containing  the  same  story  I 
had  told  my  sister,  but  more  ceremoniously  set 
forth — unavoidably  detained  at  the  bank ; not 


58 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


aware  that  I should  be  till  the  last  moment, 
with  suitable  regrets  and  acknowledgments,  left 
in  the  hands  of  a servant  at  their  door  next 
morning,  which  being  Sunday,  I knew  they  kept 
after  the  strictest  fashion  of  Scotland,  neither 
receiving  visitors  nor  going  out  of  doors  except 
to  church,  and  my  tale  was  more  easily  written 
than  told.  I could  not  rest  at  home  that  Sun- 
day ; I could  not  go  to  the  Catholic  chapel  with 
my  aunt  and  sister.  They  were  still  faithful 
children  of  Mother  Church,  particularly  Miss 
Livy,  though  I had  become  lax  and  somewhat 
of  a stray  sheep.  Many  a lecture  the  old 
woman  read  me  on  it  at  our  Sunday  dinners, 
setting  forth  where  I might  expect  to  go  in  terms 
not  to  be  misunderstood ; but  my  acquaintance 
with  the  warring  creeds,  and  their  mode  of 
carrying  on  the  long  campaigns  against  each 
other,  together  with  the  habit  of  thinking  for 
myself,  which  I had  learned  in  that  lonely  life 
of  mine,  did  not  contribute  to  make  me  sound 
in  my  faith.  Moreover,  Catholic  chapels,  even 
in  the  neighborhood  of  London,  were  poor  places 
in  those  no-Popery  days.  The  scenic  accompa- 
niments must  be  in  good  style  to  save  that  ritual 
from  becoming  ridiculous.  I could  not  stand 
the  ill-served  ceremonies,  and  worse  painted 
saints,  which  doubtless  forwarded  my  family’s 
devotion,  with  the  pictures  and  statues  in  those 
grand,  silent  rooms,  and  the  talk  I had  heard 
about  them  still  fresh  in  my  memory.  I walked 
away  miles  into  the  country,  through  lanes  and 
by-ways,  among  green  meadows  and  growing 
corn.  It  was  a glorious  summer  day,  and  peo- 
ple were  abroad  in  all  the  roads  and  villages.  I 
was  alone,  as  I had  always  been,  but  the  Satur- 
day evening  went  with  me,  and  when  I sat 
down  to  rest  in  the  hidden  nook  of  a solitary 
hedgerow,  I found  myself  thinking  of  Madame 
Palivez  and  her  strangely  offered  friendship. 

Next  evening  I recollected  that  I ought  to  go 
and  see  Rosanna  when  the  day’s  work  was  done. 
She  had  not  written  to  me  after  all  the  trouble 
in  which  we  parted.  It  was  the  dread  of  Sally 
that  kept  me  away.  That  she  would  think  of 
course,  yet  I ought  to  go ; so  I went  and  got 
into  Curzon  Street,  though  it  was  not  the 
shortest  way.  There  was  one  carriage  at  the 
door  of  the  mansion  where  the  ball  had  been 
— it  was  Madame’s  own.  I knew  it  by  the  arms 
on  the  panels ; and  in  the  shelter  of  a con- 
venient doorway,  so  as  not  to  be  seen  watching, 
I waited  till  she  came  out,  full  dressed  for  din- 
ner in  the  newest  and  most  fashionable  style, 
with  floating  lace  and  flashing  diamonds ; but 
the  fine  face  and  figure  were  still  the  same.  I 
saw  her  step  into  the  carriage  as  lightly  as  she 
had  sprung  from  her  Arab  horse,  throw  herself 
back  with  a careless,  half-scornful  air,  like  one 
that  knew  and  did  not  value  her  grandeur,  and 
I heard  her  say  to  the  coachman,  “ Carlton 
House.”  The  supreme  lady  of  the  great  bank- 
ing-house had  invitations  from  the  Prince 
Regent,  perhaps  had  a right  to  them.  The 
princely  purse  was  known  to  be  more  frequently 
empty  than  full,  and  the  Palivez  had  always 


done  a good  deal  of  court  business.  At  any 
rate,  there  would  be  no  brighter  ornament  in 
his  select  society.  Was  she  a different  woman 
there  from  what  I had  found  her?  There  was 
something  in  her  style  of  stepping  into  the 
carriage  which  told  me  she  was,  and  little  as  I 
knew  of  fashionable  life  I felt  it  must  be  so,  and 
felt  too,  with  a chagrin  I could  not  account  for, 
how  great  was  the  distance  between  what  she 
called  our  public  lives.  Perhaps  I ought  to 
have  felt  flattered — lifted  up  and  made  great  in 
my  own  esteem,  because  a lady  who  went  to 
Carlton  House,  and  owned  wealth  and  influence 
enough  to  make  her  a leader  of  fashion,  if  so 
minded,  should  have  chosen  me  for  her  private 
friend.  Yet  my  feathers  fell  instead  of  rising  at 
that  gay  sight.  “ You  are  the  bank  clerk,  and 
I am  Madame  Palivez,”  came  back  upon  me 
with  a shocking  sense  of  unfitness  and  incom- 
patibility, and  I went  in  a dreary  humor  to  Bol- 
ton Row.  Never  did  the  Joyces’  rooms  look  so 
squalid  and  disorderly;  never  did  Sally  appear 
more  dreadful,  Jeremy  more  despicable,  or  Ro- 
sanna more  uneducated,  though  her  new  dress 
was  on,  and  her  hair  not  in  papers,  without  the 
slightest  intimation  of  my  coming;  and  the  poor 
girl  received  me  as  kindly  as  if  I had  not  been 
careless  and  neglectful  in  seeing  her  but  once 
since  she  came.  Her  elder  sister  made  up  for 
it  by  two  or  three  keen  snaps,  but,  on  the  whole, 
Sally  was  a great  deal  better  than  might  have 
been  expected.  She  brought  up  the  marriage 
question  only  in  a modified  form,  and  I took  the 
customary  affectionate  leave  of  Rosanna  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs,  promising  to  come  back  soon 
and  take  her  out  some  evening  to  the  theatre. 

All  that  week  I had  fears  that  the  Forbes’ 
might  be  offended.  I saw  none  of  them,  and 
did  not  like  to  call.  Notting  Hill  House  had 
never  been  a cheerful  mansion,  and  its  gloom 
deepened  of  late,  to  my  fancy  ; but  Mr.  Forbes 
had  been  the  untiring  friend  of  my  family. 
Had  he  not  cheered  my  father’s  dying,  broken- 
hearted days,  and  given  him  the  handsomest 
funeral  that  ever  went  out  of  the  Marshalsea? 
Had  he  not  helped  to  get  up  a home  for  my  des- 
titute relations ; and  were  not  his  countenance 
and  counsel  still  the  chief  help  we  had?  I 
could  not  forget  these  things,  and  it  was  hard 
to  think  of  having  put  an  apparent  slight  on  his 
friendship.  So  it  seemed  like  a Godsend  when, 
going  home  from  business  on  the  following  Fri- 
day, we  happened  to  meet-  hard  by  the  Mansion 
House,  and  he  held  out  his  hand  to  me  with  the 
accustomed  kindness  of  look  and  tone.  “ Yo.u 
are  going  home,”  he  said,  after  friendly  inqui- 
ries for  all  my  household,  “ and  so  am  I ; hadn’t 
we  better  walk  together?  it  will  be  pleasant 
now,  in  the  cool  of  the  evening.”  I agreed, 
and  wre  walked  on,  talking  in  a serious,  kindly 
way,  as  was  his  wont.  “We  were  sorry  you 
could  not  come  to  us  on  Saturday  evening  to 
meet  my  nephew,  Charles  Barry.  His  ship  has 
come  in  from  the  Mediterranean.  They  have 
had  a long  cruise,  and  must  refit ; so  Charles  is 
a sailor  on  shore,  not  very  well  knowing  what 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


59 


to  do  with  himself,  I believe.  He  comes  to  us 
sometimes,  but  our  house  is  scarce  lively  enough 
for  a young  naval  officer.  Charles  is  promoted 
to  be  second  lieutenant  now.  I wish  he  were 
more  serious — more  thoughtful,  I should  say ; 
but  his  company  on  board  ship  are  not  likely  to 
help  him  forward  in  that  way,  though  they  see 
the  works  of  God  in  the  deep,  and  his  wonders 
in  the  great  waters.  I think  you  would  like 
Charles  ; I am  sure  he  would  like  you.  Helen 
and  I had  set  our  minds  on  introducing  you  that 
evening,  for  he  is  gone  to  Portsmouth  now.” 

I repeated  the  story  of  my  note  with  as  hon- 
est a look  as  I could  assume  under  the  circum- 
stances ; but  the  banker’s  Scottish  eye  was  upon 
me,  and  something  very  like  doubt  in  it  as  he 
said,  “I  did  not  know  you  did  business  so  late 
in  the  Palivez’  bank,  and  your  manager  a Jew. 
Is  it  possible  that  Esthers  has  so  little  respect 
for  his  people’s  Sabbath  ?” 

“I  believe  most  Jews  regard  it  very  little 
now ; they  are  probably  getting  out  of  their  old 
superstitions,  and  feel  that  they  must  advance 
with  the  rest  of  the  world,”  said  I,  willing  to  let 
the  small  blame  rest  on  the  manager ; “ but — ” 

“ Stop,  lad,”  said  Mr.  Forbes.  “ It  was  part 
of  the  law  delivered  in  thunder  on  Mount  Sinai, 
and,  though  they  have  shown  a superstitious  re- 
gard for  the  letter  of  it  in  our  Gospel  ages,  re- 
member, any  Sabbath  is  better  than  none.  The 
one  day  set  apart  from  worldly  cares  and  em- 
ployments gives  man  time  to  think  of  eternal 
things,  and  brings  him  near  to  his  Maker.  The 
Jews  were  an  example  to  Christians  in  their 
Sabbath-keeping,  but  I fear  tlyit,  as  you  say, 
they  are  growing  careless  of  it  now  in  this  busy 
London.” 

We  were  out  of  London  by  this  time,  and 
quickening  our  pace  along  the  Uxbridge  Road, 
for  a heavy  cloud  had  come  over  the  evening 
sky ; there  were  faint  growls  of  far-off  thunder, 
and  great  drops  of  rain  beginning  to  fall. 

“The  shower  will  be  heavy  when  it  comes,” 
said  Mr.  Forbes ; and  at  that  moment  I caught 
sight  of  a lady  coming  quickly  toward  us:  it 
was  his  daughter  Helen,  in  the  brown  silk  dress, 
Paisley  shawl,  and  beaver  hat,  which  formed  her 
sober  outdoor  dress.  One  would  have  taken  her 
for  a maiden  of  fifty  but  for  the  rapid  step  and 
brightly-tinged  cheek  with  which  she  came  to 
meet  her  father.  Miss  Forbes  was  certainly 
looking  better  of  late.  What  an  advantage  the 
heightened  color  was  to  her  thin  face ! how 
much  of  the  primness  and  precision  had  the 
evening  wind  and  the  coming  shower  taken  off! 
and  w'ith  what  a kindly  glance  and  smile  she 
came  up  to  us ! 

“Gude  lass,  you  will  get  a wet  shawl  by 
meeting  me  this  evening,”  said  her  father, 
clasping  her  one  hand  w’hile  I shook  the  other, 
and  hoped  Miss  Forbes  was  well. 

Just  at  that  moment  my  ear  caught  the 
sound  of  coming  hoofs ; and  riding  at  full  speed 
to  escape  the  thunder-shower,  but  still  alone, 
Madame  Palivez  swept  past  us  like  the  very 
wind.  We  every  one  looked  at  her  till  she  was 


out  of  sight.  I could  not  help  it,  though  she 
never  looked  at  me — never  seemed  to  notice 
that  there  was  any  one  on  the  road. 

“How  well  she  rides ! how  grand  and  hand- 
some she  is  !”  said  Helen,  a glow  of  enthusiastic 
admiration  lighting  up  her  whole  face. 

“ She  is  handsome,  and  she  rides  well,”  said 
Forbes,  with  a long  look  after  the  disappearing 
habit;  “yet  it  strikes  me  that  woman  has  had 
her  troubles.  We  are  born  to  them  as  the 
sparks  fly  upward,  and  the  worst  are  those  we 
make  for  ourselves.  But  Helen  will  be  drown- 
ed,” he  continued,  as  the  rain  came  down  faster, 
and  was  driven  upon  us  by  rising  gusts  from  the 
west. 

“ Come  home  with  me,”  said  I,  drawing  Hel- 
en’s arm  within  my  own,  for  the  wind  seemed 
to  whistle  through  her  thin  form,  and  threaten 
to  take  her  shawl  away ; “ we  shall  reach  the 
house  in  five  minutes ; there  will  be  shelter 
there,  and  something  to  warm  us,  I’ll  be  bound.” 

It  was  no  time  for  parley  or  consideration ; 
the  storm  was  up  in  its  fury.  I kept  fast  hold 
of  Helen  ; held  down  her  shawl ; saved  her  hat 
with  my  handkerchief ; and,  thanks  to  Rhoda’s 
haste  in  opening  the  door,  we  three  got  in  with 
little  damage.  Rhoda  was  in  a great  fluster — 
I thought  at  the  sight  of  the  unexpected  com- 
pany, but  a second  look  showed  me  that  some- 
thing still  more  unusual  had  occurred. 

“What  is  it,  Rhoda?”  said  I,  as  soon  as  we 
got  into  the  parlor,  knowing  that  every  body 
saw  it  as  well  as  myself. 

“It  is  blood-money!”  cried  Miss  Livy,  en- 
tering in  such  a state  of  excitement  that  she 
neither  saw  nor  heeded  the  strangers — “blood- 
money  ! but  I’ll  never  touch  a farthing  of  it. 
You  young  folks  may  do  as  you  please.  You 
are  past  my  advising,  with  your  love  of  fashions 
and  finery.  If  you  get  money  for  them,  you 
don’t  care  how  it  comes  ; but  I’ll  neither  eat 
nor  drink  the  price  of  Raymond’s  blood.” 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

MISS  FORBES  WILL  BE  AN  HEIRESS. 

Startled  by  the  energy  of  Miss  Livy,  we 
turned  toward  her,  but  even  as  she  spoke  a 
flash  of  forked  lightning  shone  in  among  us, 
filling  the  room  with  fire,  and  a peal  of  thunder 
right  overhead  made  the  house  shake  to  its 
foundations.  I heard  something  fall  heavily, 
but  my  eyes  were  dazzled  into  momentary 
blindness  by  the  glare.  Then  the  screams  of 
Hannah  Clark,  who  had  followed  her  mistress, 
brought  me  to  my  senses,  and  I saw  it  was  Mr. 
Forbes. 

I ran  and  lifted  him  up  — he  wTas  a light 
weight  for  so  large  a man — and  placed  him  on 
the  sofa,  with  a fearful  impression  that  the  light- 
ning had  struck  him  on  account  of  a steel  watch- 
guard  he  wore.  His  face  had  taken  that  blue 
paleness  said  to  come  with  deadly  fear  or  cold, 
but  the  steel  chain  was  untouched,  and  before  I 
had  well  got  him  up  he  opened  his  eyes. 


60 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


Poor  Helen  was  by  his  side.  What  sense  and  j 
presence  of  mind  the  quiet  girl  showed  in  that 
sudden  trial ! She  had  been  the  first  to  rush 
to  her  father;  helped  me  to  raise  him  without 
noise  or  exclamation,  and  now,  as  he  returned 
to  consciousness,  almost  pushed  me  away ; 
threw  her  thin  arms  about  him ; laid  his  head 
on  her  breast,  and  said  in  a low,  tender  tone, 

“ Dear  father,  can  you  speak  ? Are  you  hurt?” 

“I  am  not,  Helen.  But  what  was  it  that 
came  into  the  room?  Did  you  see  it?”  and  he 
shook  all  over  as  if  with  sudden  palsy. 

“It  was  a terrible  flash  of  lightning,  father; 
did  it  strike  you  ?” 

“No,  dear ; but  I am  getting  old  and  weakly. 

I suppose  it  must  have  been  an  electric  shock. 
Stop,  Lucien !”  continued  the  strong-minded 
man  of  the  North,  raising  himself  as  he  saw  me 
starting  off  for  a doctor;  “there  is  no  want  of 
medical  aid,  except  for  your  aunt  there.  What 
is  the  matter,  Miss  Livy?” 

His  words  directed  my  attention  to  the  poor 
old  woman,  who  leant  against  the  opposite  wall, 
gazing  vacantly  on  us  like  one  really  thunder- 
struck, while  Rhoda  stood  hiding  her  head  in 
the  corner  where  she  had  taken  refuge,  and  I 
Hannah  Clark  renewed  her  screams  behind  the 
door.  There  was  but  one  way  to  manage  Han- 
nah in  that  state  of  excitement.  I pushed  her 
out,  shut  the  door  upon  her,  and  not  seeing  the 
agitation  of  others,  she  settled  into  silence  in  the 
passage,  sitting  down  on  the  stair,  and  covering 
her  eyes  with  her  hands.  I sat  my  aunt  down 
on  a chair  too.  She  drew  a long  breath,  uttered 
a pious  ejaculation  or  two,  and  we  saw  that  Miss 
Livy  had  only  got  a terrible  fright.  Rhoda 
came  out  of  her  corner ; Mr.  Forbes  became 
himself  again.  He  and  his  daughter  repeated 
a brief  thanksgiving  with  bowed  heads  and 
clasped  hands.  The  lightning  flashes  became 
less  fierce  and  frequent ; the  thunder  rolled 
away  eastward  to  frighten  people  in  London, 
and  I gathered  sufficient  composure  to  say, 
“Now,  Rhoda,  since  we  have  all  heard  some- 
thing of  it,  tell  me  what  has  happened  to  trouble 
my  aunt  so.” 

“ I am  sure  it  is  not  bad  news,  Lucien,  though 
Ave  don’t  understand  it,  but  you  will.  Here  is 
the  lawyer’s  letter;”  and  she  brought  from  the 
mantelpiece,  where  it  had  lain  unnoticed,  a 
large,  legal-looking  epistle,  addressed  to  Miss 
Olivia  La  Touche,  by  Messrs.  Kelly  and  Carson, 
solicitors,  Four  Courts  Alley,  Dublin,  informing 
her,  with  lawyer-like  precision  and  brevity,  that 
an  annuity  of  two  hundred  per  annum  had  been 
purchased  for  herself  and  her  niece,  Miss  Rhoda 
La  Touche,  during  their  joint  lives,  the  whole 
to  be  enjoyed  by  the  survivor,  and  to  be  paid 
quarterly  through  their  firm.  Messrs.  Kelly  and 
Carson  further  declared  themselves  to  be  unac- 
quainted with  the  name  of  the  purchaser,  and 
professed  their  readiness  to  send  the  requisite 
documents  when  they  heard  from  Miss  La 
Touche. 

I read  that  communication  with  feelings  I 
could  never  describe.  It  was  no  hoax,  no  prac- 


[ tical  joke,  dry  and  silly  as  such  things  generally 
are.  The  name  and  style  of  Kelly  and  Carson 
were  well  known  to  me.  They  were  one  of  the 
oldest  and  most  respectable  firms  in  Dublin — 
had  done  legal  business  for  my  father  as  well  as 
for  my  uncle.  Miss  Livy  and  my  sister  were 
provided  for,  safe  from  want  and  dependence, 
whatever  became  of  me ; but  who  had  done  the 
gracious  thing?  I did  not  know  my  eyes  had 
turned  that  way  as  I lifted  them  from  the  letter, 
but  Mr.  Forbes,  looking  as  much  surprised  as 
myself,  for  I had  read  it  aloud,  said,  “No,  Lu- 
cien, I solemnly  declare  to  you  and  your  family, 
I have  no  hand  in  this  business,  and  know  noth- 
ing of  it,  though  it  is  one  which  no  man  would 
disown.  Some  friend  of  your  father’s — some- 
body of  the  many  he  helped  in  their  adversity — 
has  remembered  his  child  and  father’s  sister. 
May  the  Lord  remember  it  to  them,  whatever 
be  their  motive  for  concealment!” 

“Amen,”  said  I.  “Rhoda,  my  girl,  you  were 
right ; it  is  good  news  for  us  all.  Aunt,  dear, 
why  do  you  trouble  yourself  with  such  foolish 
notions?  The  money  comes  from  some  kind 
friend  who  does  not  wish  to  be  known,  lest  it 
I might  look  like  charity.  At  all  events,  Rhoda 
and  you  are  provided  for,  and  you  ought  to  be 
thankful.” 

“Maybe  I ought,  Lucien,”  said  poor  Miss 
Livy — that  lightning  flash  had  worked  wonders 
on  her  temper,  which  thus  came  in  contact  with 
a fire  fiercer  than  its  own — “ maybe  I ought; 
money  is  a good  thing  with  God’s  blessing,  no 
matter  who  sends  it.  Rhoda  will  be  provided 
for.  There  is4  no  use  in  talking  of  me,  for  I 
won’t  want  provision  long  in  this  world.  Oh, 
but  it  is  the  troublesome  place,  and  full  of 
strange  happenings;  but  I am  an  old  woman, 
and  that  thunder  has  shaken  my  head.  I’ll  go 
and  lie  down,  and  you  can  settle  all  about  the 
money  among  yourselves.” 

So  Rhoda  helped  her  up  stairs,  and  we  sat 
talking  over  the  news,  good  and  strange  as  it 
was.  Mr.  Forbes  was  now  composed  and  se- 
rious as  ever.  He  soberly  congratulated  me  in 
a manner  which  seemed  conclusive  regarding 
his  having  no  previous  knowledge  of  the  trans- 
action ; what  I knew  of  the  man  also  convinced 
me  that  he  would  not  make  a solemn  and  unre- 
quired declaration  except  it  was  strictly  true. 
Helen  was  even  warmer  in  her  congratulations, 
though  the  poor  girl  still  looked  pale  and 
troubled  about  her  father.  He  seemed  in  haste 
to  go.  Now  that  the  rain  had  spent  itself,  and 
the  sky  was  clearing  fast,  no  entreaties  of  mine 
could  make  him  stay  or  take  any  refreshment. 
“We  will  go  home  to  dinner,”  said  he  ; “the 
air  is  cool  and  fresh  now  after  the  rain ; it  will 
blow  the  fright  and  confusion  off  us,  and, 
though  the  road  is  wet,  both  Helen  and  I wear 
thick  shoes.” 

Away  they  went  down  the  deep-running 
road  ; Helen  looked  back  at  me  with  a kindly 
smile  as  I watched  them  from  the  door  through 
the  deepening  twilight,  filled  with  the  scents 
that  .rise  in  rural  places  after  summer  rain  .;  and 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


61 


when  they  were  fairly  out  of  sight,  I stood  there 
still,  till  Rhoda  crept  out  to  my  side,  laid  her 
hand  on  my  shoulder,  looked  up  with  her  rosy 
face  full  of  contented  joy,  and  said,  “Now, 
Lucien,  dear,  you  will  have  no  more  burden  of 
us ; all  your  earnings  will  be  your  own ; you 
can  marry  Rosanna  and  bring  her  home.  We 
can  soon  get  another  house,  if  she  don’t  like  us 
to  live  here,  though  I would  rather  stay,  if  my 


“No,  Lucien,  how  could  I,  when  you  did 
not  tell  me  ?” 

“I  did  not  know  myself  till  one  day  last 
week  ; but  there  they  are,  and  we  shall  have  an 
opportunity  of  seeing  whether  my  aunt  and  Ro- 
sanna could  agree  or  not.” 

“ Maybe  they  would,’”  said  Rhoda  ; “ but  I 
am  glad  you  told  me  the  Joyces  was  come; 
I’ll  always  know  where  you  be,  Lucien,  when 


aunt  and  her  could  agree,  and  she  could  take 
with  poor  Hannah — for  in  course  we’ll  keep 
her.” 

“ Do  you  know  that  Rosanna  has  come  from 
America  with  her  sister  and  brother,  and  they 
are  living  in  London?” 

I had  no  difficulty  in  telling  my  sister,  now 
that  it  involved  no  fears  for  herself. 


you  stay  out  late  on  Saturday  evenings,  and  the 
Forbes’  send  their  servant  *to  look  after  you.” 

I recognized  the  full  value  of  the  insinuation, 
but  turned  my  honest  sister  off  with,  “So  you 
would  like  to  stay  with  me,  Rhoda — all  your 
life,  is  it,  or  only  till  you  see  somebody  you  will 
like  better?” 

“ I’ll  never  see  one  I’ll  like  better  than  you, 


62 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


Lucien ; you  are  all  the  brother  I have.  Many 
a time,  when  you  were  in  America,  and  I sat 
spinning  at  the  lead  window  of  our  back  room 
over  yonder  in  Ireland  — I wonder  if  Jenny 
Short  has  got  a glass  one  put  in,  as  she  said  she 
would  when  our  tails  was  turned — many  a time, 
when  I sat  there,  and  heard  the  great  sighing  of 
the  sea  coming  up  through  the  long  quiet  days, 

I thought  how  wide  it  was  between  us,  and 
minded  the  summer  times  long  ago,  when  we 
used  to  play  together  all  by  ourselves,  building 
houses  at  the  foot  of  the  woodbine  wall,  and 
gathering  moss  to  make  carpets  for  them  off  the 
old  apple-trees  in  our  father’s  garden  in  Armagh. 
When  the  rest  went  from  me,  one  by  one,  I 
never  missed  them  as  much  as  I did  you.  And 
yet  how  strange  you  looked  to  me  that  night  on 
the  quay,  Lucien ! but  that  has  wore  off,  and  I 
mind  on  the  old  playtimes  still  when  you  are 
out  at  the  bank  ; it  just  keeps  me  from  hearing 
my  aunt  grumbling.  Howsomever,  she  is  get- 
ting over  that  uncommonly.  I think  Rosanna 
will  be  able  to  stand  her;  but,  goodness  me! 
what  could  have  put  that  in  her  head  about  the 
money,  Lucien ! and  what  do  you  think  came 
over  Mr.  Forbes?”  * 

“An  electric  shock,  I think.” 

“ Some  stroke  of  the  lightning.  Well,  maybe 
it  was ; nobody  never  saw  such  a flash.  I got 
a glimpse  of  his  face  out  of  that  corner,  Lucien, 
and,  though  I never  saw  the  like,  thank  God  ! it 
looked  to  me  just  what  one  might  be  that  had 
died  of  fright.” 

“ I think  the  flash  did  frighten  him  more  than 
he  cared  to  acknowledge.  Mr.  Forbes  is  not  a 
strong  man.  But  as  for  aunt’s  notions  about 
the  money,  there  is  no  use  in  minding  them  ; it 
has  come  from  some  friend  of  our  father — some- 
body that  owed  him,  perhaps,  more  than  we 
know  of,  and  had  a right  to  remember  you  and 
Miss  Livy  for  his  sake ; depend  on  it,  we  will 
find  that  out  in  time.” 

“Would  it  be  the  great  bank  lady  you  found 
the  ring  for  ?”  She  had  hit  on  a supposition 
which  occurred  to  my  own  mind  on  -stronger 
grounds  than  Rhoda  was  aware  of,  but  had  been 
discarded  more  than  once.  Why  should  the 
business  be  done  through  a Dublin  solicitor  ? 
Madame  Palivez  had  a London  firm  in  regular 
employment  ever  since  the  bank  was  establish- 
ed in  Old  Broad  Street ; it  was  not  likely  that  she 
would  take  such  a mode  of  rewarding  me,  after 
what  had  passed  between  us,  and,  though  I 
reasoned  the  impression  away,  it  always  returned 
upon  me  that  there  was  some  truth  in  my  poor 
aunt’s  unaccountable  conclusion,  and  that  the 
mysteriously  purchased  annuity  had  something 
to  do  with  my  lost  brother — perhaps,  indeed, 
the  result  of  his  late  repentance,  if  he  had  really 
been  the  sinner  we  took  him  for. 

“That  would  be  a good  price  for  a ring, 
Rhoda,”  I said,  as  she  repeated  the  question, 
and  I had  thought  over  it  for  at  least  the 
seventh  time. 

“ So  it  would,  and  it’s  to  yourself  she  would 
give  it,  not  to  us;  in  course  she  don’t  know  that 


the  like  of  us  is  living,  but  I know  she’ll  do 
something  for  you  yet,  Lucien.  Is  not  Miss 
Forbes  the  nice  young  lady — not  handsome,  to 
be  sure,  but  so  good  to  every  body,  and  not  a 
bit  of  pride  about  her  ? She  comes  here  and 
speaks  to  Hannah  and  me,  wanting  me  to  teach 
her  the  Bible,  which  can’t  be  done  nohow,  that 
I am  able  to  think  on,  but  it’s  very  good  of  Miss 
Forbes,  Lucien  ; I would  rather  have  her  than 
that  bank  lady.” 

“What  do  you  know  of  the  bank  lady, 
Rhoda?”  The  • gathering  darkness  kept  her 
from  seeing  my  surprise. 

“ Well,  nothing  ; but  I see  her  ri dinghy  here, 
and  away  through  the  fields.  I am  sure  she 
looks  at  our  house  every  time  she  passes,  and 
once  I saw  her  looking  at  me  so  mighty  sharp 
that  I was  ashamed  and  left  the  window.” 

“Perhaps  you  were  taking  too  much  notice 
of  her,  Rhoda  ; Madame  Palivez  is  a great  lady, 
of  immense  wealth,  and  in  the  first  society  ; the 
Prince  Regent  invites  her  to  Carlton  House  ; he 
and  all  the  foreign  embassadors  and  people  of 
fashion  go  to  the  grand  balls  and  parties  she 
gives  at  her  mansion  in  Mayfair ; I have  seen 
the  street  in  front  of  it  quite  filled  with  their 
carriages  ; and  if  she  rides  about  the  country 
alone,  it  is  for  her  own  whim  or  fancy ; Madame 
might  have  half  a dozen  grooms  after  her  if  she 
pleased.” 

“Oh!  I know  she  is  very  high  and  grand, 
and  I am  sure  I didn’t  look  at  her  too  forward 
or  curious-like ; but  one  can’t  help  looking  at 
her,  Lucien,  she  is  so  uncommon,  and  handsome 
too;  but  she  is  proud,  Lucien;  it  is  in  her  eye 
and  in  her  air,  and  I would  rather  have  Miss 
Forbes.” 

“ Miss  Forbes  is  a very  good,  very  kind  lady, 
and  .has  a fine  cousin,  a young  naval  officer, 
who  comes  there  when  his  ship  is  in  port,  and 
Miss  Forbes  will  be  an  heiress.” 

“ Oh,  no  doubt,  and  heiresses  always  gets 
young  men  enough  ; but  I am  sure  I wish  her 
a good  one,”  said  Rhoda,  with  a half  sigh. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A CONFERENCE. 

Hours  after  all  the  household  were  in  bed,  I 
lay  awake,  thinking  of  the  events  of  the  day  and 
the  talk  with  my  sister.  It  was  true  what  she 
said — I might  marry  Rosanna,  and  bring  her 
home  now,  without  compunction  or  fear  of  the 
future.  Rhoda  and  Miss  Livy  were  independ- 
ent of  me ; but  would  it  be  kind  to  send  them 
from  me  in  the  strange  country— strange  to  them 
as  any  corner  of  the  world  could  be — now,  when 
we  had  learned  and  become  reconciled  to  each 
other’s  ways?  My  only  sister,  whose  memory 
clung  so  fondly  to  our  early  play  times,  between 
whom  and  ine  affection  and  confidence  were 
growing  up  from  the  old  roots,  as  wild  flowers 
come  when  the  winters  are  over — my  poor  old 
grand-aunt,  who  had  by  this  time  grown  at 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


63 


home  in  my  house  as  she  was  not  likely  to  do 
in  another,  for  the  lightning  had  shown  me  how 
far  her  sands  had  run  — would  it  be  kindly, 
would  it  be  wise  to  move  them  to  another  home, 
perhaps  by  way  of  making  room  for  Sally  Joyce 
and  Jeremy?  The  terrors  of  that  succession  had 
haunted  me  at  intervals  ever  since  my  engage- 
ment with  Rosanna  had  been  formed.  There 
are  no  barriers  against  relations  in  law  so  sure 
as  born  kindred.  Would  it  not  be  prudent,  and 
one’s  duty  to  wait  for  some  time,  get  them  grad- 
ually introduced,  and  see  if  Rosanna  and  Miss 
Livy  could  agree  ? I knew  Rhoda  would  agree 
with  any  body ; and  it  might  be  well  to  find  out 
what  brought  the  Joyces  from  America. 

They  could  know  nothing  of  the  Dublin  law- 
yer’s letter;  there  was  nothing  to  hinder  me 
from  keeping  it  judiciously  to  myself.  I felt 
inclined  to  that  course  from  other  motives  not 
so  easily  put  in  words.  By  whomsoever  that 
annuity  had  been  purchased,  the  moving  cause 
concerned  my  lost  brother.  That  was  a convic- 
tion which  I could  neither  establish  satisfactorily 
nor  reason  away.  The  Joyces  would  come  to 
the  same  conclusion ; and  it  would  be  no  easy 
task  to  hear  Sally  on  the  subject.  How  had 
that  boy  become  the  spectre  of  our  house,  haunt- 
ing the  last  of  us  through  strange  lands  and  al- 
tered fortunes,  one  of  the  black  shadows  of  which 
Madame  Palivez  had  spoken  ! My  thoughts 
reverted  to  her  from  every  topic  and  channel. 
I had  heard  nothing  of  or  from  her  since  the 
day  she  chose  me  for  her  friend,  and  made 
that  queer  compact  with  me — seen  nothing  ex- 
cept the  flash  of  her  diamonds  going  to  Carlton 
House,  and  the  flutter  of  her  green  habit  as  she 
swept  past  me,  without  glance  or  sign  of  recog- 
nition, on  the  road  to  her  villa.  Yet  Rhoda  saw 
her  pass  the  house  and  look  keenly  at  its  win- 
dows ; her  inquiring  glances  had  frightened  my 
sister  from  the  post  of  observation,  and  Rhoda 
had  an  abiding  conviction  of  her  pride  and 
haughtiness.  Perhaps  the  girl  was  right ; yet 
what  cause  had  I to  wonder  or  be  displeased? 
Was  not  Madame’s  whole  course  of  a piece  with 
the  terms  on  which  she  offered,  and  I accepted, 
friendship?  Was  she  not  still  the  great  lady, 
and  I the  humble  clerk?  Were  we — could  we 
be  friends  long,  or  really,  on  such  terms  ? I 
had  accepted  and  could  not  change  them  ; had 
it  been  in  my  power,  I could  not  for  my  very 
soul  have  told  what  change  I should  make.  In 
the  mean  time,  what  ought  I to  do?  Did  she 
expect  me  to  go  and  visit  her  unsent  for,  by  that 
private  door  in  the  church-yard  wall  ? She  had 
not  told  me  so ; but  I knew  Madame  did  not. 
Should  I find  my  way  to  her  villa  ? She  might 
not  be  there  — she  might  not  want  me.  How 
did  I know  what  kind  of  an  establishment  she 
pleased  to  keep  in  that  hermitage  ? and  with  the 
thought  there  came  the  sudden  memory  of  the 
wild;  ragged  man,  with  his  long  knife  and  fierce 
growl  about  somebody  that  had  been  murdered  ; 
and  then,  by  an  instinct  of  the  mind  which  I 
can  not  explain,  my  suspicion  of  her  fearing 
Esthers,  and  the  tale  of  his  being  her  cousin, 


crossed  me,  and  again  I asked  myself  the  ques- 
tion, Was  my  grand-aunt  and  sister’s  annuity 
purchased  with  the  notes  of  the  Palivez  bank  ? 

The  days  that  followed  that  of  the  thunder- 
storm must  have  been  long,  bright,  midsummer 
ones,  but  they  have  grown  dim  and  confused  in 
my  recollection,  for  the  thoughts  thus  sketched 
went  with  me  through  their  work  and  play — if 
one  ever  gets  the  latter  after  childhood.  I re- 
member writing  to  Messrs.  Kelly  and  Carson  a 
grateful  acceptance  of  the  two  hundred  per  an- 
num, in  Miss  Livy  and  Rhoda’s  names  ; I re- 
member observing  how  quiet  and  thoughtful  my 
grand-aunt  had  grown,  as  if  the  sight  of  that 
terrible  flash  which  struck  down  the  strong  man 
in  her  presence  was  still  upon  her.  She  rose 
late  next  day — according  to  Rhoda’s  report — 
gave  no  bother  at  all,  sat  spinning  slowly  in  her 
accustomed  corner,  welcomed  me  kindly,  and 
without  a grumble,  when  I came  home  from  the 
! bank,  and  began  to  take  more  than  usual  to  her 
rosary. 

I remember  walking  slowly  home  that  Satur- 
day evening,  assuring  myself  I would  be  in  good 
enough  time  for  going  to  the  Forbes’,  and 
looking  around  for  the  most  distant  sound  of  a 
horse’s  hoof.  Nobody  but  old  gentlemen  riding 
home  to  dinner  at  their  country  houses  passed 
me;  but  as  I approached  the  very  spot  where 
Madame  Palivez  first  stopped  and  talked  to  me 
about  her  signet-ring,  there  was  a lady  evident- 
ly awaiting  my  approach.  It  was  not  a green 
habit,  but  a Paisley  shawl  she  wore,  and  I quick- 
ened my  pace  to  salute  Miss  Forbes. 

“Oh,  Mr.  La  Touche,  I have  been  wishing 
for  an  opportunity  to  thank  you  for  your  care 
and  kindness  to  my  father  in  that  terrible  storm,” 
she  said,  when  we  had  a friendly  shake-hands, 
and  the  tears  were  coming  into  her  soft,  earnest 
eyes. 

“I  expect  and  deserve  no  thanks  for  any* 
thing  I shall  ever  be  able  to  do  in  your  father’s 
service,  Miss  Forbes,  and  I only  hope  that 
Providence  will  one  day  put  it  in  my  power  to 
acknowledge  the  deep  debt  of  gratitude  which 
I and  my  family  owe  to  him.” 

“ Oh,  my  father  does  not  consider  you  his 
debtor  at  all ; he  is  always  happy  when  he  can 
do  any  thing  for  any  body  ; and  your  father  and 
he  were  old  friends,  were  they  not?”  How  well 
and  easily  she  spoke  on  the  subject ! 

“Mr.  Forbes  was  the  only  friend  my  father 
had  in  his  sore  adversity.  When  those  he  had 
associated  with  and  served  in  his  prosperous 
days  stood  aloof  or  turned  their  backs  on  him, 
your  father  came  forward,  like  a generous  man 
and  a true  Christian  as  he  is,  assisted,  cheered, 
and  did  the  last  offices  of  friendship  for  him. 
Oh,  Miss  Forbes,  I can  never  forget,  never  re- 
pay that  obligation,  if  it  were  the  only  one  he 
had  conferred  on  me  and  mine.” 

“You  are  very  good  to  think  and  speak  so 
well  of  him  ; I know  it  is  partly  justice,  though 
my  father  never  will  let  his  good  deeds  be  spo- 
ken of,  especially  those  you  have  mentioned. 
Sometimes  I wish  he  did  not  think  quite  so 


64 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


humbly  of  himself ; but  no  doubt  it  is  his 
stronger  faith  and  clearer  knowledge  which 
teach  him  that  humility  I have  yet  to  learn ; 
but  if  you  knew  him  as  I do,  Mr.  La  Touche, 
though  it  may  look  vain  and  foolish  for  me  to 
say  so,  you  would  believe  that,  if  ever  there  was 
a saint  on  earth,  he  must  be  one — so  righteous, 
so  good,  so  self-denying,  leading  such  a blame- 
less, pious  life,  with  nothing  of  the  Pharisee  in 
him,  and  more  charitable  to  every  creature  than 
himself.” 

While  she  heard  and  spoke  her  father’s  praise, 
Helen’s  thin,  colorless  face  had  been  lighted  up 
with  a glow  of  honest  pride  and  affection  that 
positively  made  it  beautiful ; but  when  I an- 
swered, “I  believe  it  from  my  heart,  Miss 
Eorbes,  and,  like  you,  I sometimes  wonder  why 
he  so  dislikes  to  hear  his  good  works  referred 
to,  particularly  by  myself,  who  has  most  reason 
to  remember  them,”  the  flush  suddenly  faded, 
and  her  eyes  drooped,  as  if  with  some  painful 
recollection.  “It  is  strange,”  she  said,  after  a 
minute’s  pause,  “ but  no  doubt  he  fears  the 
growth  of  spiritual  pride ; it  is  a rank  and  in- 
sidious weed,  as  the  best  divines  tell  us;  perhaps 
you  don’t  read  their  books,  Mr.  La  Touche  ? — 
pardon  me,  I am  forgetting  you  belong  to  a dif- 
ferent church,  and  I am  forgetting  my  message 
too.  I have  been  at  your  house,  seeing  Miss 
Livy ; my  father  made  me  promise  to  go  over 
some  time  to-day ; you  see  he  had  to  go  to  Ed- 
inburg on  business  this  morning — very  particu- 
lar business,  I believe,  on  account  of  some  infor- 
mation Mr.  Esthers  sent  him  last  night.  He 
says  it  was  the  kindest  thing  in  the  world,  and 
what  nobody  could  have  expected  from  a Jew. 
I am  sure  I never  would  have  expected  any 
thing  very  good  from  Mr.  Esthers ; but  one  is 
apt  to  judge  uncharitably.  I suppose  it  is  a 
great  mistake  to  estimate  people  by  their  looks, 
and  I shall  always  think  better  of  him  for  doing 
such  good  service  to  my  father.” 

“I  am  glad  to  hear  of  it,  though  it  is  the  last 
thing  I would  have  expected  of  Esthers  either  : 
he  certainly  has  it  in  his  power  to  send  correct 
and  early  information  to  any  gentleman  in  your 
father’s  business,  if  he  be  only  willing;  and,  for 
my  own  part,  I also  shall  think  better  of  the 
manager  for  serving  Mr.  Forbes.” 

There  was  another  reflection  arising  to  my 
lips — by-the-by,  it  had  been  the  first  in  my  mind 
— to  the  effect  that  Esthers  was  solicitous  for 
the  banker’s  acquaintance  as  well  as  that  of  his 
daughter,  and  sincerely  envied  my  intimacy  of 
their  house ; but  the  little  discretion  I had,  to- 
gether with  the  dread  of  appearing  envious  in 
my  turn,  made  me  change  the  subject  by  saying, 
“ I am  rejoiced  to  hear  that  your  father  was  well 
enough  to  take  so  long  a journey  after  the  shock 
he  suffered.” 

“ Oh,  it  did  not  injure  him  at  all ; but  how 
very  strange  that  he  should  have  been  so  struck ! 
Does  it  often  happen,  Mr.  La  Touche,  that  peo- 
ple are  struck  by  lightning,  and  yet  escape  un- 
injured?” There  was  something  anxious,  al- 
most fearful  in  her  look.  How  much  the  girl’s 


serious,  solitary  life  was  bound  up  in  the  equal- 
ly lonely  and  sober  one  of  her  father ! She  had 
hit  on  a query  which  puzzled  myself,  and  got 
the  only  answer  I had  to  give : “lam  not  aware 
that  it  often  happens ; but  the  laws  of  electricity 
are  but  imperfectly  known  to  us;  at  any  rate, 
Mr.  Forbes  has  escaped,  and  doubtless  will  have 
no  bad  consequences.” 

“I  hope  not;  he  told  me  he  was  quite  well 
this  morning  when  we  parted,  and  made  me 
promise  to  see  Miss  Livy,  and  tell  you  that  he 
would  be  home  on  Saturday  week,  and  we  should 
expect  you  in  the  evening ; perhaps  cousin 
Charles  will  be  up  from  Portsmouth  by  that 
time.” 

“He  won’t  stay  long  in  Portsmouth  while 
you  are  in  the  neighborhood  of  London,  I sus- 
pect, Miss  Forbes.”  It  was  impertinent  curios- 
ity mingling  with  some  distant  influence  of  the 
Blarney  Stone  that  originated  that  speech,  but 
Helen  was  not  flattered ; on  the  contrary,  she 
looked  a little  vexed,  and  said,  “Oh,  you  are 
entirely  mistaken  ; the  consideration  of  my  be- 
ing in  the  neighborhood  would  weigh  very  little 
with  Charles  ; he  is  my  cousin-german,  but  does 
not . care  much  for  our  house  or  company ; he 
prefers  gay  life,  and  finds  us  rather  dull ; but  I 
was  going  to  say  how  well  Miss  Livy  had  got 
over  the  fright — it  was  only  a fright  in  her  case, 
I suppose?” 

“Nothing  more ; she  is  very  old,  has  seen  a 
great  deal  of  trouble,  and  her  peculiar  trials  have 
made  her  a little  odd.” 

“ So  they  do  make  most  of  us,”  said  Helen, 
sighing,  and  looking  as  if  she,  too,  were  above 
seventy.  “Miss  Livy  did  not  understand  the 
lawyer’s  letter,  you  see,  and  it  disturbed  her;  I 
think  she  does  not  quite  understand  it  yet ; but 
your  sister  does — what  a good,  sensible  girl  she 
is,  and  what  a blessing  she  may  b^  Jo  you,  Mr. 
La  Touche ; so  dutiful  to  her  grand-aunt,  and  so 
good  to  poor  Hannah  Clark  ; perhaps  it  is  tak- 
ing a great  liberty,  but  I do  wish  you  and  she 
would  try  to  teach  that  poor  girl  some  of  the 
things  that  belong  to  eternity ; but  I am  keep- 
ing you  standing  here,  and  I know  you  want  to 
go  home.” 

“No,  indeed,  Miss  Forbes;  but  the  dew  is 
falling — won’t  you  come  back  to  the  house  with 
me  and  take  tea  ?” 

“ Oh  dear,  no ; I am  very  much  obliged,  but 
I always  like  to  be  at  home  when  my  father  is 
absent.  I will  come  over  and  see  Miss  Livy 
some  time  soon,  and  talk  to  your  sister  about 
Hannah,  if  she  will  let  me.” 

“My  sister^will  be  glad  to  hear  you  talk  about 
any  thing,  and  so  shall  we  all,  Miss  Forbes ; but 
allow  me  to  see  ypu  home  ?” 

“Oh,  not  for  the  world  ; you  must  be  tired 
with  the  long  day  in  the  bank,  I am  sure,  and  it 
is  not  late  ; I could  not  think  of  giving  you  so 
much  trouble.”  . . 

“ No  trouble  at  all,”  said  I,  drawing  her  arm 
within  mine,  for  she  was  now  going,  and  there 
was  gentleman’s  duty  to  be  done — not  to  speak 
of  her  being  Mr.  Forbes’s  daughter. 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


65 


Helen  looked  pleased  and  flattered  for  the 
first  time  in  all  onr  acquaintance,  reminding 
me  of  Rosanna,  and  as  we  walked  on  talking, 
not  as  Rosanna  and  I used  to  do,  but  con- 
cerning my  grand-aunt’s  age  and  fright;  the 
merciful  dispensation  of  Providence  by  which 
she  and  Rhoda  were  provided  for ; the  praises 
of  the  latter,  which  my  heart  echoed  every 
word  , and  the  duty  and  necessity  of  instruct- 
ing Hannah  Clark.  When  we  reached  Notting 
Hill  House,  I knew  it  was  proper  to  take  my 
leave.  Helen  was  far  too  prudent  to  ask  a gen- 
tleman in  while  her  father  was  absent,  but  she 
lingered  with  me  at  the  gate  before  pulling  the 
bell,  glanced  along  the  road,  and  said,  “That’s 
the  way  Madame  Palivez  rides  home  to  her 
villa,  but  I have  not  seen  her  to-day.  Mr.  Est- 
hers said  in  his  note  to  papa  she  was  so  occu- 
pied with  a friend  of  hers — I forget  his  name,  but 
he  is  a Russian  prince — that  she  stays  mostly 
at  the  West  End ; but,  good-by,  I have  de- 
tained you  shamefully;  if  my  father  were  at 
home  lam  sure  he  would  scold  me.”  I made 
my  declarations  of  being  pleased  and  honored, 
and  still  blaming  herself,  but  with  a brighter 
smile  and  lighter  step  than  ever  I imagined  she 
could  exhibit,  Helen  left  me  at  the  open  gate 
and  tripped  into  the  house.  Far  down  the 
avenue  of  trees  and  along  the  open  road  I look- 
ed back — it  was  the  villa  way — but  my  eye  also 
caught  Mr.  Forbes’s  bay  window ; somebody 
was  standing  there,  half  hidden  by  the  curtain, 
but  the  head  was  turned  toward  me,  and  I knew 
the  banker’s  daughter  was  seeing  me  home. 

What  of  that  ? Miss  Forbes  had  a way  of 
looking  after  people  : it  was  her  only  amuse- 
ment. Church-going  and  good  books,  needle- 
work and  visiting  the  poor,  could  fill  up  no- 
body’s life.  It  was  out  of  that  very  window 
she  watched  Madame  Palivez.  How  much 
more  information  concerning  her  would  Esthers 
be  able  to  give,  now  that  he  had  made  good  his 
footing  in  Notting  Hill  House.  There  was  a 
long  desired  object  attained  at  last,  and  Esthers 
had  shown  his  discernment  by  taking  the  most 
direct  way  to  it.  Ordinary  people  may  be  won 
by  flattery  or  attentions  : prudent  ones  can  be 
bought  only  by  serving  their  interests. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

POOR  MISS  LIVY. 

The  important  information  which  sent  Mr. 
Forbes  off  to  Edinburg  that  Saturday  morning 
was  made  clear  to  my  understanding  some 
three  weeks  after,  when  the  Lothian  bank  sud- 
denly stopped  payment,  and  all  who  had  trans- 
actions with  that  long-established  house  were 
serious  losers  except  himself.  I knew  the 
prudent  banker  well  enough — while  only  guess- 
ing it  must  be  something  of  the  kind — to  believe 
that  solid,  useful  service  done  to  his  business 
would  insure  Esthers  a high  place  in  his  good 
graces.  I also  observed  that  the  manager  in- 
E 


tended  to  stand  well  with  his  daughter.  He 
had  particulars  of  the  lady-superior  to  commu- 
nicate for  her  edification  which  were  carefully 
kept  from  my  ears.  I had  never  heard  a 
syllable  about  the  Russian  prince,  though  Est- 
her’s civility  to  me  seemed  to  increase  hourly. 
His  private  reasons  for  that  silence  I could  not 
yet  fathom,  but  the  motive  of  his  communica- 
tions was  plain.  In  Helen’s  admiring  interest 
in  Madame  Palivez  and  her  doings,  as  sincere 
as  it  was  undisguised,  there  appeared  to  me  the 
one  touch  of  romance  in  her  quiet  and  method- 
ical life ; it  was  so  unlike  what  might  have  been 
expected  from  her  opposite  nature  and  habits 
— such  a contradiction  of  the  world’s  report 
regarding  the  hostility  of  plain  women  to  hand- 
some ones.  I marveled  at,  I half  admired  her 
for  it ; and  friendly  as  we  were,  it  was  the  only 
sentiment  of  hers  in  which  I had  any  sympathy. 
Esthers  had  found  it  out — the  powers  of  plot- 
ting best  know  how — and  meant  to  make  it  a 
fulcrum  for  his  lever  wherewith  to  move  the 
heart  of  Miss  Forbes.  Yes,  that  was  his  drift 
or  design.  There  was  a smirking  smile  got  up 
whenever  her  name  happened  to  be  mentioned 
— a familiar  tone  assumed  in  his  inquiries  after 
the  young  lady’s  welfare — which  had  become 
frequent  of  late.  The  manager  seemed  to  have 
forgiven  my  goings  to  Notting  Hill  House,  and 
condescended  to  converse  with  me  about  the 
Forbes’  family  as  our  mutual  friends.  He  had 
made  good  his  entrance,  and  he  was  an  able 
general.  Moreover,  there  was  every  induce- 
ment to  employ  his  powers.  Helen  was  her 
father’s  only  heiress.  The  mercantile  wealth 
and  status  on  which  Esthers’  heart  and  hopes 
were  set  might  be  achieved  through  her,  and  I 
had  no  doubt  of  him  playing  his  cards  well ; 
but  there  was  that  in  Helen’s  look  when  we  sat 
together  at  the  bay  w indow,  and  her  pale  cheek 
flushed  as  she  blamed  herself  for  not  liking  the 
manager — ay,  and  that  very  evening,  when  she 
promised  to  think  better  of  him  for  serving  her 
father,  there  was  that  which  assured  me  that  on 
her  gentle,  pious,  upright  nature,  the  best-laid 
scheme  or  acted  part  could  have  no  power.  For 
all  his  cunning,  Esthers  was  not  the  man  to  win 
the  Scotch  banker’s  heiress.  Helen  never  could 
like  him,  for  all  his  news  and  service ; but  her 
talk,  quiet  as  it  was,  always  did  me  a sort  of 
spiritual  good.  What  ought  to  be  done  was  apt 
to  come  into  my  mind  on  such  occasions ; and 
when  I had  seen  that  all  was  right  at  home,  it 
sent  me  to  see  Rosanna. 

I went  wondering  who  the  Russian  prince 
was,  or  if  Esthers  had  coined  that  piece  of 
gossip,  having  none  else  to  tell  ; and  I found 
myself  once  more  in  Curzon  Street,  opposite 
Madame’s  house.  It  was  lighted  up  for  another 
gala — not  a ball  this  time;  there  were  fewer 
carriages,  fewer  gazers ; and  I learned,  from  the 
passing  discourse  of  an  orange-girl  and  a pastry- 
cook’s boy  that  Madame  was  giving  a select 
dinner-party.  The  study  and  worship  of  high 
life  go  down  to  every  grade  of  the  West  End ; the 
costermongers  and  street-boys  around  me  were 


66 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


familiar  with  the  names  and  titles  of  the  arriving 
company.  I stood  there  waiting  for  the  mention 
of  the  Russian  prince,  looking  out  for  any  in-  , 
dividual  who  might  be  his  Northern  highness ; j 
but  I saw  nothing  of  the  kind.  There  were  | 
turbaned  dowagers  and  old  officers  with  ribbons 
and  stars ; and  when  the  door  was  finally  shut, 
and  the  last  carriage  driven  away,  I walked  into 
Bolton  Row. 

The  slatternly  maid  admitted  me  as  usual, 
but  she  was  in  haste  to  answer  an  impatient 
bell ; and  I was  making  my  own  way  to  the 
attic,  though  it  was  getting  dark  by  this  time, 
and  the  solitary  lamp  was  not  yet  lighted,  when 
almost  at  the  top  a man’s  voice  reached  me 
from  the  Joyces’  rooms ; it  Avas  not  Jeremy’s 
subdued  tone.  I stopped  short,  and  the  next 
moment  saw  Rosanna  rushing  down. 

“Is  it  you,  Lucien  dear?”  she  said,  in  a 
frightened  Avhisper  (how  keen  the  poor  girl’s 
ear  had  grown  regarding  my  voice  and  step!). 
“Don’t  come  up,  for  goodness  sake!  Sally  is 
in  a fit — the  worst  one  she  ever  had,  and  if 
she  sees  you  it  will  make  her  ten  times  worser. 
That  notion  about  us  not  getting  married  soon 
enough  runs  in  her  head  so.  Oh,  Lucien  ! she 
gives  Jeremy  and  me  no  life  at  all;”  and  Ro- 
sanna began  to  sob  at  the  foot  of  the  third  flight, 
to  which  we  had  now  got  down. 

“Don’t vex  yourself,  Rosanna,”  said  I;  “per- 
haps Ave  may  get  married  sooner  than  Sally 
thinks.”  Nothing  but  my  prudent  resolution 
touching  the  introduction  of  her  and  Miss  Livy 
kept  me  from  telling  her  the  good  neAvs  on  the 
spot.  “But  why  did  she  work  herself  into  a fit 
this  evening?  And  is  that  a doctor  I hear 
talking  in  your  room  ?” 

“ Oh  yes — we  had  to  send  for  one,”  said  Ro- 
sanna, already  giving  up  her  sobs.  “But  why 
do  you  think  Ave  will  get  settled  so  soon  ? Have 
you  got  a better  situation,  or  somebody  to  take 
your  aunt  and  sister?  For  goodness  sake  do 
tell  me,  my  own  dear,  darling  Lucien ; I haven’t 
a minute  to  stay,  for  if  she  knew  you  were  here, 
the  house  would  not  hold  her.” 

“Well,  Rosanna,  don’t  stay;  I’ll  tell  you  all 
some  other  time,  when  Sally  is  better.” 

4 ‘ Oh ! she  will  be  well  enough  on  Monday 
evening,  I am  sure;  but  can’t  you  tell  me  now?” 

“ No,  Rosanna,  I can  not ; but  I’ll  come  and 
see  you  on  Monday  evening.  Good-night ; be 
a good  girl,  and  don’t  vex  yourself  Avhatever 
Sally  says.  We  will  be  happy  yet.” 

“ Oh ! I’ll  go  down  Avith  you  to  the  door.  It 
is  such  a pleasure  to  see  you  for  a minute  longer, 
my  own  dear  Lucien she  clung  to  my  arm. 
Hoav  hard  it  was  to  hold  on  my  prudent  course ; 
but  it  was  for  the  best,  and  all  should  be  made 
up  to  her  hereafter.  We  went  down  the  dark 
stairs  in  kindly  company.  She  promised  not  to 
grieve ; said  she  could  trust  me  to  the  world’s 
end ; her  Lucien  never  would  forsake  her.  We 
had  our  tender  leave-taking  in  the  passage, 
which  happened  to  be  left  to  ourselves.  I heard 
the  doctor’s  tones  rising  louder  above,  and  it 
struck  me  as  something  strange  that  there  was 


laughter  mingling  with  them.  Perhaps  the 
medical  man  was  not  particular  in  an  attic.  I 
promised  to  come  back  punctually  on  Monday 
evening — promised  to  be  always  faithful,  ay,  and 
intended  it ; yet  felt  relieved  when  fairly  under 
the  street  lamps. 

On  the  following  Sunday  it  was  my  duty  to 
escort  my  grand-aunt  and  sister  on  an  invitation 
which  had  been  long  pending  to  the  house  of  the 
Masons,  Watt  Wilson’s  relations. 

Honest  people,  they  lived  in  Brook  Green 
Lane,  Hammersmith,  then  a pretty  street  of 
small  new  houses,  running  out  into  the  com- 
mon, but  now  gone  doAvn  considerably  in  ap- 
pearance and  respectability.  The  head  of  the 
house  and  husband  of  Watt’s  sister  was  a clerk 
like  myself,  not  indeed  in  a bank,  but  in  a mer- 
cantile house.  His  salary  Avas  as  large  as  mine ; 
his  responsibilities  Avere  not  much  greater, 
though  he  had  six  young  children ; but  Wilson 
had  impressed  the  ancient  descent  and  grand- 
eur of  the  La  Touches  of  Armagh  so  deeply  on 
the  family  mind,  that  from  the  father  to  the 
baby  in  long  clothes  every  one  of  the  Masons 
reverenced  us,  and  put  forth  all  their  resources 
of  fare  and  manners  for  our  suitable  entertain- 
ment. The  hard-working,  well-doing  pair  and 
their  six  little  ones  have  no  place  in  this  story 
of  mine.  They  were  the  only  society  my  grand- 
aunt and  sister  had : useful  and  safe  acquaint- 
ances, friends  as  the  world  goes.  I valued  them 
as  such,  and  made  myself  at  home  with  them 
for  the  time.  Our  association  was  long  and  fa- 
miliar, cemented  by  good  offices  on  either  side, 
and  with  nothing  hard  or  unpleasant  to  look 
back  on ; but  of  that  particular  Sunday  after- 
noon spent  under  their  hospitable  roof  I re- 
member chiefly  my  own  deep  disgust  at  the 
necessary  accompaniments  of  family  life,  Avith  a 
narrow  income  and  an  increasing  household. 

The  crying  baby,  for  whom  there  Avas  no  dis- 
tant nursery ; the  larger  and  more  troublesome 
children,  in  evident  want  of  a governess ; the 
absence  of  elegance  and  taste ; the  number 
crowded  up  in  such  small  spaces,  jarred  on  my 
mind  as  they  had  never  done  before,  and  at  the 
same  time  I recollected  that  Avith  such  means 
Mason  could  do  no  better,  and  neither  could  I, 
if  in  his  circumstances.  Was  that  the  prospect 
before  me  and  Rosanna?  was  that  the  home  we 
had  to  expect?  I knew  she  Avould  never  be 
such  a manager  as  Mason’s  wife.  I knew  that 
Jeremy,  Sally,  and  the  fits  Avere  always  to  be 
seen  in  the  background,  if  not  in  our  very  front, 
and  I inwardly  rejoiced  at  the  prudent  reserve 
Avhich  at  least  insured  me  a respite  from  such 
penalties.  I remember  Watt  Wilson  doing  the 
honors.  He  Avas  the  director  of  that  house,  the 
Masons  being  only  managers  under  him,  in  right 
of  his  bachelorhood,  and  the  savings  qnce  placed 
at  my  disposal.  Miss  LiAry  had  always  liked 
him ; he  was  the  last  link  to  her  former  life, 
country,  and  associations,  now  within  the  old 
woman’s  reach.  Our  expedition  to  his  sister’s 
house  had  been  undertaken  partly  to  cheer  her 
up  from  that  unnatural  quiet,  superinduced,  as 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


67 


we  thought,  by  the  fright  in  the  thunder-storm. 
Wilson  was  aware  of  that.  He  talked  to  her  of 
the  old  times  that  were  still  good  in  her  memo- 
ry ; of  the  Easters  and  Christmases  kept  in  Ar- 
magh, when  our  house  was  yet  unscathed  by 
misfortune,  and  she  was  its  manager.  For  once 
since  her  coming  to  London,  all  that  had  come 
and  gone  since  then  seemed  to  slip  away  from 
Miss  Livy’s  mind ; her  old  face  brightened  up 
till  it  almost  lost  the  wrinkles  of  nearly  four- 
score years  with  the  recollections  of  jokes  and 
merry-makings,  and  friends  that  had  long  gone 
the  way  of  the'  roses.  I had  never  seen  her  so 
blithe  and  bright  since  the  spring-time  of  my 
seventh  year. 

Wilson  vowed,  she  was  growing  young  again. 
The  honest  fellow  would  see  us  home ; as  he  re- 
marked, there  was  some  walking  to  do.  The 
London  and  Hammersmith  coach  set  us  down 
at  Church  Street,  qne  of  the  outlying  arms  of 
Kensington,  from  whence,  by  cross  ways,  we  got 
to  Petersburg  Place. 

“Take  my  arm,  Miss  Livy,”  said  Wilson,  as 
he  helped  her  out  of  the  coach.  “Let  these 
young  folks  run  on  before  us ; they  don’t  mind 
as  much  as  you  and  I do.” 

“Thank  you,  Watt,  thank  you;  but  if  it  is 
all  the  same  to  him,  I Would  rather  take  Lu- 
cien’s  arm.  Many  a time  he  has  helped  me 
over  this  rough  road ; maybe  it  isn’t  so  rough 
neither,  only  I think  it,  as  I did  many  a thing. 
Oh ! but  this  world  is  -deceiving.  That’s  it, 
Lucien,  my  boy,”  she  continued,  as  I drew  her 
arm  into  mine;  “many  a time  you  helped  me 
along,  but  this  is  the  last  of  it.” 

“Nonsense,  aunt,”  I said,  “we  will  walk 
here  many  a day  to  see  the  Masons,  and  home 
again.” 

“I  don’t  think  it,  Lucien.  Something  tells 
me  my  time  is  nearly  come.  I haven’t  felt  so 
light  of  heart  and  cheerful  these  twenty  years. 
It  is  just  as  if  nothing  at  all  had  happened, 
though  I know  it  has,  and  more  than  ever  I 
knew  before  ; but  we  won’t  talk  of  that.  The 
Lord  will  bring  it  all  to  light  in  His  good  time, 
which  won’t  be  within  my  day,  and  how  should 
it  ? I have  lived  to  see  my  youngest  grand- 
nephew a tall,  handsome  man,  the  image  of  his 
father.  I hope  you’ll  be  as  good,  and  have  bet- 
ter luck,  Lucien.  You  have  been  a good  boy 
to  us,  and  you’ll  get  a blessing  for  it.  You  and 
Rhoda  are  the  last  of  them  all — the  family  I 
saw  so  many  and  merry.  I wake  out  of  sleep 
here  in  the  long  nights  with  the  voices  of  the 
children  ringing  in  my  ears,  as  they  rang  through 
the  old  house  before  trouble  came.  You  and 
Rhoda  are  the  last  of  them,  and  you  will  be  kind 
to  one  another  when  I am  dead  and  gone.” 

/ “Aunt,  dear,”  cried  Rhoda,  “you  are  not 
going  to  die!”  Wilson  and  I broke  in  with  a 
similar  remonstrance.  It  was  strange  to  hear 
Miss  Livy  talk  so  on  that  sweet  summer  even- 
ing, when  the  trees  were  full  of  leaves,  and  the 
sky  in  the  flush  of  sunset.  The  thought  of  her 
departure  had  never  come  to  me  as  a grief  till 
then ; the  old  woman  seemed  so  wise,  so  amia- 1 


ble,  so  sorely  tired,  so  underrated  — my  heart 
smote  me  for  my  own  share  in  the  last-men- 
tioned. I made  good  resolutions  for  time  to 
come,  and  declared,  in  chorus  with  Wilson  and 
Rhoda,  that  she  would  live  and  walk  with  us  for 
many  a year. 

“I  know  better,  children,  and  the  Lord’s  will 
be  done ! Long  life  is  not  a desirable  thing ; 
you’ll  think  so  when  you  come  to  know  it  as  I 
do.  I remember  saying  so  to  your  poor  sisters 
when  they  were  going ; but  not  one  of  them 
would  believe  me.  Oh,  but  this  world  is  de- 
ceiving, and  a poor  place  to  fix  our  minds  on, 
with  its  falsehoods  and  its  changes  ; there  is 
nothing  certain  but  the  sky  above  and  the  grave 
below,  children  — the  grass  must  be  long  and 
green  over  them  this  summer,  as  it  grows  over 
all  the  dead;  but  up  there,” and  she  pointed  to 
the  sky,  “what  a place  it  must  be  above  the  sun 
and  moon,  the  clouds  and  the  troubles ! — but, 
dear  me,  is  this  our  house  ? It  looks  prettier 
than  ever  I thought  it  before ;”  and  Miss  Livy 
stepped  cheerfully  in.  We  had  left  Hannah 
Clark  at  home,  somewhat  against  Rhoda’s  mind; 
her  peculiar  mode  of  conversation  offended  my 
gentility,  and  would  not  have  conduced  to  the 
quiet  of  the  Masons’  house.  I had  therefore 
installed,  by  way  of  care-taker  and  company,  a 
certain  honest  charwoman,  of  Miss  Forbes’s  rec- 
ommending, who  had  been  employed  about  No. 
9 since  our  settlement  there,  was  known  to  be 
sober  and  steady — having  a husband  of  the  con- 
trary kind  and  three  small  children  to  keep — 
and  her  name  was  Mrs.  Muncy. 

When  Hannah  opened  the  door  to  us  with 
accustomed  demonstrations,  and  the  good  wom- 
an stood  waiting  in  the  passage  till  they  sub- 
sided, I knew  she  had  something  to  say. 

“What  is  it,  Mrs.  Muncy?”  said  I,  as  soon 
as  hearing  could  be  obtained. 

“ If  you  please,  sir,  there  has  been  a gentle- 
man here,  about  an  hour  after  you  went,  inquir- 
ing in  the  kindest  manner  for  all  the  family,  and 
yourself  particularly.” 

“Did  he  leave  his  name  or  card?” 

“No,  sir,  nothing  of  the  kind,  though  I axed 
him  two  or  three  times,  saying  how  disappointed 
you  would  be  ; but  he  said  he  would  call  again, 
and  discoursed — I mean,  made  a deal  of  signs 
with  his  face  and  fingers — to  Hannah.  I am 
sure  she  understood  him,  for  you  never  heard 
or  saw  how  she  went  on  answering  like ; but  I 
couldn’t  make  out  a notion  of  what  he  was  say- 
ing, though  I should  have  liked  to,”s&ys  Mrs. 
Muncy,  twisting  her  apron-string. 

“What  was  he  like?”  said  I,  in  hopes  of 
knowing  my  visitor  by  description.  But,  gra- 
cious reader,  did  you  ever  try  how  many  or- 
dinary people  could  describe  either  a person  or 
place  so  as  to  let  you  know  one  from  another  ? 

“Well,  sir,  he  was  like  a gentleman,”  said 
Mrs  Muncy,  twisting  away. 

‘ ‘ What  had  he  on  ?” 

“A  coat  and  a hat,  sir.” 

“ Was  he  tall  ?” 

I “ Not  very  tall,  sir.” 


68 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


“ Was  he  little?” 

“Not  very  little,  sir.” 

“ What  sort  of  a face  had  he  ?” 

“A  middling  nice  face.”  At  this  point  I gave 
up  in  despair ; but  Rhoda  having  taken  Hannah 
in  hand  in  the  kitchen,  now  came  to  my  assist- 
ance with,  “Hannah  says  it  was  the  priest.” 

“Well,  maybe  it  wor  a Catholic  clergyman,” 
said  Mrs.  Muncy,  who  happened  to  be  a sound 
Protestant ; “you  knows  best,  miss,  and  so  does 
Hannah ; but  he  didn’t  look  very  like  it  to  me. 
Howsomever,  I did  all  I could  with  him  to  leave 
his  name,  and  when  he  calls  again  you’ll  see 
him  yourselves.” 

“ Don’t  you  think  Father  Connolly  would 
have  left  his  name,  Rhoda?”  said  I,  when  we 
were  in  the  parlor  and  the  charwoman  out  of 
hearing.  Our  parish  priest  did  visit  us  some- 
times, though  never  before  on  Sunday ; and 
Mrs.  Muncy’s  declaration  that  the  visitor  did 
not  look  like  a Catholic  clergyman  weighed  on 
my  mind,  and  I could  not  help  adding,  “Are 
you  sure  Hannah  tells  the  truth?” 

“I  never  knowed  her  to  tell  stories,  and  I am 
sure  she  knows  Father  Connolly ; he  might  have 
been  coming  to  see  after  Miss  Livy,  Sunday  as 
it  is.  It  was  queer  of  him  not  to  leave  his 
name ; but  he’ll  come  some  day  next  week,  I’ll 
warrant.  I never  thought  Father  Connolly  could 
sign  and  talk  to  Hannah ; the  last  time  he  was 
here  he  did  not  understand  a word  she  said ; 
but  is  it  not  the  good  thing,  Lucien  ? He’ll  be 
able  to  teach  her  all  that  Miss  Forbes  wants  me 
to  do,  and  I am  sure  I can’t,  let  me  try  ever  so. 
But,  goodness  me ! my  aunt’s  away  up  stairs 
herself,  and  hasn’t  nobody  to  help  off  with  her 
bonnet,”  said  Rhoda,  as  she  left  me  to  my  med- 
itations. 

Perhaps  it  was  Father  Connolly,  and  no  doubt 
he  would  call  again  to  give  Hannah  religious  in- 
struction, to  which  the  good  priest  had  probably 
found  some  key,  for  he  was  a laborious  and  de- 
voted pastor  according  to  his  creed,  with  a large 
and  poor  parish,  his  part  of  which  consisted 
chiefly  of  emigrant  Irish.  By  the  way,  he  was 
one  of  them,  as  his  name  imported ; and  though 
not  from  our  part  of  Ulster,  his  native  place  was 
Donegal  Bay,  I believe ; he  knew  our  family  his- 
tory, and  paid  us  particular  attention.  1 had 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  must  have  been 
our  visitor,  after  canvassing  the  subject  more 
than  it  seemed  worth,  when  I entered  the  man- 
ager’s office  on  Monday  morning,  and  started 
back  involuntarily,  as  in  Esthers’  place,  and 
manifestly  looking  over  his  book,  I beheld  Ma- 
dame Palivez. 

“ Good-morning,  Mr.  La  Touche,”  she  said, 
•with  the  tone  and  manner  of  the  bank  lady;  “do 
you  know  if  Mr.  Esthers  be  within  ? I know  he 
is  not,”  she  continued’,  when  I had  made  my 
bow,  stammered  out  something  in  reply  which 
was  never  clear  to  my  mind,  and  shut  the  door. 
“He  goes  to  see  a friend  of  his  on  Sunday  aft- 
ernoon— at  least  he  went  yesterday,  and  has  not 
got  back;  the  way  is  rather  long.  And  now, 
young  man,  I don’t  know  whether  I ought  to 


shake  hands  with  you  or  not.”  She  extended 
her  white  hand  as  she  spoke,  and  looked  exactly 
as  she  did  when  asking  me  to  stay  and  dine  with 
her.  “ How  comes  it,  after  making  a league  of 
friendship — an  alliance  offensive  and  defensive, 
as  one  may  say,  against  the  world  — that  you 
have  never  appeared  at  my  back  rooms  in  the 
bank,  or  my  hermitage  in  the  Park  ?”  We  were 
shaking  hands  still,  and  could  get  out  nothing 
but  “ Madame,  you  did  not  send  for  me.” 

“Do  you  wait  to  be  sent  for?”  said  she, 
laughing;  “that  may  be  friendship  in  this  age 
and  country,  but  it  would  not  have  passed  for 
such  in  our  ancient  Greece.” 

“Madame,  you  will  excuse  me ;”  I felt  my- 
self wronged  and  misjudged,  yet  how  hard  it 
was  to  put  the  case  in  words — to  express  my 
own  feelings  on  the  subject. 

“Perhaps  I will ; what  is  your  excuse?”  she 
said ; “ we  were  to  be  friends  without  pride  or 
misunderstanding.” 

“I  did  not  like  to  trespass  upon  you  when 
you  might  have  been  otherwise  engaged  ; our 
positions — what  you  very  properly  call  our  pub- 
lic lives — are  so  different.  I was  aware,  though 
merely  from  appearances  about  your  house  in 
Curzon  Street,  which  I sometimes  pass,  that  you 
were  much  occupied  with  company,  as  most 
fashionable  people  are  at  this  period  of  the  Lon- 
don season” — she  was  positively  looking  embar- 
rassed, and  that  gave  me  courage  to  proceed — 
“I  thought  that  when  you  wished  to  see  me 
you  would  let  me  know,  as  you  had  the  good- 
ness to  do  before,  and  I thought  it  better  to 
wait.” 

“ You  are  more  prudent  than  I am,”  she  said, 
the  embarrassment  deepening  into  vexation  ; 
had  the  incompatibility  of  things  at  length  oc- 
curred to  her  also?  “but  listen;  we  can  not 
talk  here;  you  will  come  and  see  me  at  my 
hermitage  in  the  Park  this  evening ; there  will 
be  time  enough  after  the  bank  closes ; the  way 
lies  up  by  the  stream  and  through  the  trees,  you 
remember,  and  can  not  miss  it  if  you  only  keep 
to  the  left  and  follow  its  windings.  Look  at 
this,  too,”  and  she  drew  from  her  pocket  a small 
brass  key,  of  old-fashioned  but  strong  workman- 
ship, “a  proof  that  I will  not  be  the  first  to 
break  our  compact ; take  and  keep  it ; it  will 
admit  you  to  my  back  rooms  by  the  door  in  the 
church-yard  wall,  to  my  hermitage  by  the  only 
gate,  it  has : Calixi  or  any  of  my  servants  will 
tell  you  where  I am,  and,  by  the  honor  of  old 
Greece,  there  will  never  be  a ‘ not  at  home’  to 
you.  Good-by  for  the  present.”  She  shook 
hands  with  me  once  more,  and  left  the  key  in 
my  fingers;  “you  will  come  this  evening?” 

“ If  I am  alive,  Madame.”  How  was  it  that 
the  promise  to  Rosanna  passed  out  of  my  mem- 
ory for  the  time  ? 

She  had  stepped  to  the  door  and  opened  it 
before  the  words  were  well  out,  and  with  a 
formal  “ Good-morning,  Mr.  La  Touche,”  which 
would  have  edified  any  clerk  within  hearing, 
swept  along  the  passage,  and  I heard  the  inside 
key  turned  in  her  door  of  retreat. 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


69 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  VISIT  TO  THE  HERMITAGE. 

Charitable  souls  will  say  that  I differ  from 
the  most  of  mankind ; but  fibs  and  falsehoods, 
whether  black  or  white,  have  always  gone 
grievously  against  my  grain.  I never  could  tell 
one  neatly,  even  to.  a woman,  however  necessary 
it  might  be ; and  the  fear  of  having  to  do  some- 


forgotten  to  tell  Madame  in  time,  and  could  not 
disappoint  her  now.  I would  run  over  and  see 
Rosanna  some  time  to-morrow ; it  might  be  as 
well  to  give  sister  Sally  space  to  recover  from 
her  Saturday  evening’s  performance ; and,  bet- 
ter than  all,  I knew  from  past  experience  there 
was  no  lasting  indignation  to  be  expected.  I 
could  always  talk  Rosanna  over  or  into  any 
thing,  and  always  would  : it  was  one  of  the 


thing  of  the  kind  kept  me  away  from^Bolton 
Row  that  Monday  evening,  and  sent  me  off,  as 
soon  as  business  would  permit,  to  the  west  end 
of  Kensington  Park,  with  the  weight  of  a lover’s 
broken  promise  hanging  like  a mill-stone  about 
the  neck  of  my  conscience,  which,  after  the 
manner  of  men,  was  enabled  to  support  it,  with 
the  help  of  half  a score  of  apologies.  I had 


links  that  held  me  in  her  thrall.  I know  the 
like  has  a similar  powfer  over  most  men ; and 
whether  it  be  a bond  to  hold  good  against  life’s 
wear  and  tear  or  not,  I leave  to  better  judges 
I had  looked  at  my  brass  key  at  intervals 
throughout  the  day,  as  a new-made  chamber- 
lain  might  look  at  his  gold  one.  There  were 
opportunities,  for  Esthers  did  not  appear  till  the 


70 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


forenoon  was  pretty  well  spent ; then  he  slipped 
into  the  office  as  quietly  as  he  had  done  before ; 
wherever  those  absences  took  him,  he  was  not 
desirous  that  they  should  attract  observation. 

It  was  both  my  policy  and  inclination  to  suit 
the  manager  exactly  in  this  respect.  The  Blue- 
beard chamber  in  my  own  life  kept  me  from 
prying  overtly  into  other  people’s,  but  I private- 
ly remarked  that  Esthers  had  come  back  as 
thoughtful  and  preoccupied  as  from  his  former 
trip ; that,  in  like  manner,  he  pretended  to  be 
deeply  engaged  with  the  bank-books,  while 
merely  sitting  over  them,  and  occasionally 
muttering  to  himself  about  one’s  own  turn ; 
that  toward  evening  he  brightened  up  again, 
took  special  occasion  to  let  me  know  that  his 
absence  was  entirely  on  Madame’s  service,  busi- 
ness of  great  importance  being  hinted  at;  and 
Esthers  was  not  only  himself,  but  more  civil 
and  communicative  than  usual ; yet  there  was 
never  a word  of  his  friendly  doings  to  Mr.  Forbes, 
or  his  gossip  about  the  Russian  prince. 

We  were  playing  our  respective  games ; I 
felt  sure  that  Esthers  knew  nothing  of  mine,  and 
doubtless  he  thought  the  same ; but  somehow, 
thinking  of  him  brought  to  my  recollection, 
when  just  passing  Tyburn  Gate’  that  if  I went 
straight  up  the  path  by  the  stream,  and  Helen 
Forbes  happened  to  be  sitting  by  the  bay  win- 
dow doing  her  needlework,  and  looking  out  for 
Madame  Palivez,  she  might  wonder,  and  watch, 
and  surmise  where  I was  going.  Madame  did 
not  want  me  to  be  seen,  and  neither  did  I ; our 
public  lives  were  different,  and  my  heart  was 
true  to  the  spirit  as  well  as  the  letter  of  our 
compact ; so  I crossed  Hyde  Park  to  the  Kens- 
ington side,  went  down  the  Hammersmith  Road, 
passed  Holland  House  and  lawn,  then  the 
parade  of  Whig  literature,  skirted  Holland 
Park,  entered  the  Norland  one  by  a path  which 
is  now  a street  of  houses  thickly  inhabited — I 
think  they  call  it  Prince’s  Road ; it  was  a wild 
grassy  glade  among  old  trees  at  that  time ; 
the  Norland  and  Kensington  parks  met  there. 
Helen  had  told  me  it  was  a way  Madame  some- 
times took,  and  I was  resolved  to  find  her  villa. 

My  resolution  was  crowned  with  success.  At 
some  distance  along  the  lane  I saw  the  tracks 
of  hoofs  in  the  mossy  grass — Zara  had  been 
there — and  it  led  me  through  a narrower  and 
more  tangled  path  to  the  left,  going  deep  into 
the  heart  of  that  ancient  royal  woodland,  where 
the  first  George  had  done  his  last  hunting,  and 
was  said”  to  have  seen  the  spectre  of  his  long- 
imprisoned  wife,  who  died  at  the  Castle  of  Zell, 
beckoning  to  him  out  of  one  of  the  darkest 
thickets. 

My  way  was  growing  so  narrow  and  tangled 
that  I thought  I must  be  losing  myself  in  the 
park,  which  was  still  of  great  extent,  when  sud- 
denly it  opened  on  a clear  green  space,  a forest 
dell  it  seemed,  shut  in  by  great  trees,  beyond 
which  there  was  no  seeing,  but  open  to  the 
evening  sun,  which,  now  almost  on  the  edge  of 
the  horizon,  cast  broad  gleams  of  golden  light 
on  the  walls  and  windows  of  a small  solitary 


house,  which  stood  there  silent,  but  sweet  to 
look  upon  as  a fairy  bower.  Its  height  was  but 
two  low  stories ; all  round  the  lower  was  a 
veranda,  all  round  the  upper  a balcony;  the 
roof  was  slightly  arched,  and  it  had  no  chimney ; 
some  of  the  windows  were  stained  glass,  some 
painted  lattice-work.  The  house  stood  in  the 
midst  of  a garden  of  flowers,  which  seemed  to 
be  indigenous ; the  most  of  them  were  known 
to  my  childhood,  but  such  a wealth  of  bloom  I 
never  saw  ; there  was  nothing  there  but  flowers ; 
no  fence,  but  a low  green  paling  and  a hedge  of 
hawthorn,  from  which  the  white  blossoms  were 
still  falling;  the  light  pillars  of  the  veranda, 
the  railings  of  the  balcony,  the  walls,  the  win- 
dows, and  the  very  roof  were  wreathed  with 
climbing  roses,  honey-suckle,  and  jessamine, 
and  the  whole  was  sheltered  on  the  north  and 
east  by  a high  bank,  or  rampart  of  earth,  clothed 
with  luxuriant  ivy,  and  planted  with  the  tallest, 
thickest  laurels  I ever  saw.  That  was  her  villa, 
her  hermitage — nobody  else  could  have  planned 
or  built  the  like ; but  was  there  any  living  crea- 
ture about  it?  The  thrush  was  singing  his  last 
upon  the  neighboring  trees,  the  earliest  nightin- 
gale had  commenced  among  the  thick  laurels 
her  hymn  to  the  summer  night ; but  I saw  no- 
body, heard  no  human  voice.  The  key  had  been 
given  me,  and  I would  try  it,  however;  I did 
try  it  on  the  one  gate  there  was  for  entrance  or 
egress,  got  easy  admission,  stepped  up  a white 
sanded  walk,  entered  the  veranda — it  was  paved 
with  white  marble,  which  the  summer  wind  had 
strewn  over  with  rose-leaves — -saw’  a window,  or 
rather  glass  door,  half  open  ; it  gave  me  entrance 
to  a hall  or  outer  room,  also  marble  floored,  but 
that  was  mosaic,  furnished  only  with  a group  of 
the  Lares  guarding  an  antique  hearth,  a kind 
of  settle  made  of  cedar  and  beautifully  carved, 
a low  covered  table  before  it,  but  nobody  to  be 
seen. 

I turned  out  again  ; there  was  a marble  stair 
leading  up  from  the  veranda,  the  jessamine 
twining  all  along  its  banister ; I ascended  first 
to  a vestibule,  then  into  a room  adjoining,  the 
glass  door  of  which  also  stood  open  ; the  floor 
was  of  inlaid  wood,  polished  and  shining,  the 
furniture  like  that  of  Madame’s  back  rooms,  as 
she  called  them,  but  slighter,  more  summer-like, 
and  far  less  costly ; and  on  one  of  the  low  sofas 
at  the  farther  end,  half  hidden  by  a great  myrtle 
in  full  flower — for  many  such  like  shrubs  grew 
in  large  vases  ranged  around  the  painted  walls 
and  in  the  balcony — there  sat  or  rather  reclined 
Madame  Palivez  herself,  in  a plain  loose  white 
dress,  fastened  with  a purple  ribbon,  the  heavy 
braids  of  her  rich  hair  hanging  free  from  net  or 
pins,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  a half-open 
book  lying  by  her  side;  and  I discovered  she 
was  fast  asleep.  I suppose  in  most  dilemmas 
a man’s  first  resource  is  to  hem ! I took  to  it 
instinctively  on  that  occasion,  having  just  taken 
time  to  notice  how  rigid  and  sternly  resolved 
the  otherwise  beautiful  face  looked  while  she 
i slept.  Madame  did  not  start,  nor  even  seemed 
I surprised,  but  opened  her  eyes,  passed  her  white 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


71 


hand  over  them,  then  extended  it  to  me,  with 
“Welcome,  my  friend!  you  have  found  me 
sleeping  after  a long  ride  ; perhaps  the  jessa- 
mine tells  on  one  in  this  warm  evening,  or  the 
weight  of  years  begins  to  press  down  the  eyelids 
in  broad  day.  Is  it  not  a curious  fact  that  even 
in  the  East,  where  the  heat  makes  it  a universal 
custom,  young  people  do  not  sleep  so  much  in 
the  daylight  as  their  elders  ? That’s  right,  find 
yourself  the  best  seat  you  can  ; I hope  they  are 
not  all  too  low  for  you.  Did  you  find  the  way 
easily  up  by  the  stream  ?” 

“ I didn’t  come  that  way,  Madame.”  What 
made  me  let  it  out?  she  comprehended  the 
whole  by  one  glance  in  my  face. 

“You  wanted  to  avoid  Mr.  Forbes’s  window ; 
his  daughter  sits  there;  good,  industrious  girl, 
always  at  needlework ; many  a time  I see  her 
looking  after  me.  It  is  a dull  life  for  a young 
person  to  lead  in  that  solitary  house  ; they  see 
very  little  company,  I believe ; yet  Mr.  Forbes 
is  rich,  and  nothing  peculiar  about  the  family.” 
There  was  a keen  and  curious  inquiry  in  her 
look. 

“Nothing  that  I know  of,  but  the  early  loss 
of  his  wife  and  two  sons,  and  Scotch  Calvinism,” 
said  I. 

“Don’t  despise  that,  my  friend  ; Calvinism  is 
but  Christian  fatalism,  the  only  faith  -which 
every  age  and  all  research  confirms.  Does  that 
astonish  you  ? Perhaps  you  have  not  thought 
on  the  subject,  yet  it  is  one  that  must  occur  to 
every  thinker.” 

“ You  believe  in  predestination,  then?”  said  I. 

“Yes,  in  the  ancient  philosophic  sense.  The 
inexorable,  unalterable  Fate,  fixed  forever  above 
all  power,  beyond  all  wisdom,  independent  of 
all  merit,  never  to  be  avoided  or  overstepped, 
never  to  be  accounted  for  or  reasoned  on,  with- 
out justice,  without  mercy,  and  without  change, 
seems  to  me,  as  it  seemed  to  the  thinkers  of  old 
on  the  shores  of  the  Nile,  the  Aegean,  and  the 
Tjber,  the  one  certainty,  lying  cold,  dark,  and 
immovable  at  the  root  of  all  our  belief,  doctrines, 
and  speculations,  as  the  primeval  rock  lies  be- 
neath the  cultivation,  the  graves,  and  the  debris 
of  the  world.  It  was  the  Parcas  of  the  Greek 
tragedy,  a threefold  representation  as  governing 
the  birth,  the  life,  and  the  death  of  mortals. 
Probably  from  it  came  the  idea  of  the  Triad, 
which  runs  through  all  Eastern  mythology,  and 
has  descended  to  its  latest  offshoots,  the  very 
troublesome  creeds  of  Christendom.  The  old 
Fate  has  found  name  and  place  among  them 
too,  and  to  do  the  stiff  Picard  Calvin  justice,  he 
seemed  to  have  the  clearest  understanding  of  it : 
that  eternal  election  and  reprobation  of  his  come 
the  nearest  to  the  classic  notion,  and  are  fitted 
most  ingeniously  into  the  Christian  framework. 
I \:an’t  help  thinking  they  gave  strength  to  his 
system  as  well  as  hardness,  and  helped  him  to 
found  the  rigid  theocracy  which  held  its  own, 
and  more,  in  the  watchmaking  city  so  many  a 
year,  against  the  whole  of  Catholic  Europe.  At 
least  you  will  allow  that  the  Calvinists  of  France 
and  Holland  showed  a tougher  courage,  and 


I passed  through  a fiercer  ordeal,  than  the  Lu- 
theran men  of  Germany  and  England.  The 
same  doctrines  struck  deep  root  in  Scotland; 
they  were  fitted  for  the  national  mind,  which 
may  be  narrow,  but  is  never  shallow.  Calvinism 
fought  a tough  battle  there,  lived  through  it,  and, 
what  is  far  more  wonderful,  has  lived  on  in  spite 
of  religious  peace,  increasing  wealth  and  trade, 
and  the  prevalence  of  schools.  Your  friends 
the  Forbes’,  and  thousands  of  Scotch  families  at 
home  and  abroad,  hold  fast  by  the  decrees  from 
all  eternity ! Observe,  it  is  not  they  alone  that 
have  made  them  serious  and  sober;  there  is 
something  in  the  banker’s  face  that  tells  me  he 
has  had  experience  of  a kind  to  confirm  the 
faith  he  was  reared  in.  I mean  what  I say,” 
she  continued,  in  answer  to  my  look  of  involun- 
tary amazemen  t ; “ there  are  experiences  which 
prove  the  election  and  reprobation  doctrines  to 
be  true,  independent  of  divines  with  their  for- 
mulas and  texts.” 

“ What  kind  of  experiences,  Madame  ?” 
“What  thousands  meet  with,  my  friend. 
The  circumstances,  the  surroundings,  the  neces- 
sities all  setting  one  way,  like  so  many  concur- 
rent tides  for  good  or  for  evil — no  matter  which, 
they  are  equally  strong — generally  strongest  for 
the  latter  course — not  to  be  turned,  not  to  be 
run  against,  and  sure  to  bear  us  on  to  their  OAvn 
inevitable  goal,  however  opposed  to  our  inclina- 
tions, our  efforts,  and  our  hopes.” 

“ I can  not  believe  in  such  doctrines,”  said  I, 
speaking  plainly  out  my  thoughts,  for  they  had 
followed  every  word  she  uttered  with  a deeper 
and  more  personal  interest  than  mere  specula- 
tion could  ever  command.  “This  fixed,  unal- 
terable fate  of  yours,  Calvin’s  eternal  decrees, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it,  leave  no  room  for  free 
will,  and  consequently  none  for  accountability.” 
“ My  friend,”  and  she  smiled  compassionate- 
ly, “ when  you  have  inquired,  observed,  and  ex- 
perienced more,  you  will  discover  that  the  notion 
of  free  will  among  men  is  like  that  of  liberty 
among  nations — a thing  much  talked  about, 
much  sacrificed  for,  often  dreamt  of,  but  never 
realized.  The  deeper  we  search  into  life  and 
its  workings — social,  domestic,  and  individual 
— the  farther  it  recedes  from  us.  Most  men 
think  themselves  agents  when  they  are  only  in- 
struments. None  of  us  ever  can,  or  ever  could, 
do  otherwise  than  we  do.” 

“Is  there  no  blame,  no  retribution,  then?” 
“There  is  plenty  of  both,  my  friend,  partic- 
ularly the  first-mentioned.  Is  not  the  whole 
world  blaming  every  body  who  does  not  suc- 
ceed? Hasn’t  it  been  going  on  in  the  same 
fashion,  blaming  away  from  one  generation  to 
another,  since  Adam  was  unlucky  enough  to  eat 
that  apple  ? And  as  for  retribution,  had  not  the 
Nemesis  her  altars,  on  which  my  ancestors  of- 
fered sacrifices  in  the  Athenian  night,  to  propi- 
tiate the  goddess  of  darkness  and  revenge,  that 
she  might  not  come  to  levy  her  tribute  off  their 
houses  ? They  have  been  long  overturned,  or 
given  to  other  gods;  but  she  reigns  still;  and  we 
have  made  her  more  costly  offerings  in  these 


72 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


Christian  times  than  man  ever  made  in  her  ac- 
knowledged temples.  Ay,  the  Nemesis  reigns 
still ; there  is  revenge,  but  there  is  no  justice, 
no  prevention,  no  escape  for  the  innocent.  The 
retribution  comes  by  fixed  laws,  which  have 
no  variation  and  no  reasonableness  in  them — 
comes,  but  not  in  proportion  to  the  guilt,  not 
heaviest  on  the  head  of  the  wrong-doer.  The 
corner-stone  removed,  no  matter  by  what  power 
or  for  what  purpose,  brings  down  the  tower  on 
innocent  infancy  as  well  as  on  guilty  manhood. 
The  ship  goes  to  pieces  with  a Jonah  on  board, 
but  honest  hands  and  faithful  hearts  go  with  it. 
Yes,  my  friend,  there  is  retribution  and  blame 
enough,  but  these  are  only  other  names  for  des- 
tiny.” 

“I  will  go  farther  than  that  with  you,”  said 
I,  feeling  for  the  first  time  on  equal  terms  ; “ I 
will  allow  that  Jonah  may  swim  safe  to  shore, 
while  some  far  better  man  gets  his  inside  place 
in  the  whale.  Limited  as  you  justly  think  my 
experience,  it  has  been  sufficient  to  let  me  know, 
by  something  like  practical  proofs,  Madame,  that 
our  good  and  ill  fortunes  are  not  measured  by 
our  merits.  To  the  worst  and  the  best,  the 
chances  are  probably  pretty  equal  in  this  world. 
But  is  there  not  another  life  to  adjust  the  bal- 
ance— the  hereafter,  to  which  wise  men  of  all 
times  and  races — Confucius,  Zoroaster,  and  So- 
lon— have  looked  for  the  solution  of  the  moral 
problems  which  still  perplex  us  all,  and  the  jus- 
tice not  to  be  expected  on  this  side  of  the  grave  ? 
Do  not  the  conflicting  creeds  of  mankind,  which 
agree  in  nothing  else,  come  to  one  on  the  doc- 
trine of  future  rewards  and  punishments?” 

“They  do,  my  friend,  with  a considerable 
difference  on  the  subjects  of  them  ; for  instance, 
according  to  your  Roman  teaching,  the  most 
dreadful  doom  may  be  expected  for  doing  de- 
spite to  a consecrated  wafer : from  my  Greek 
instructors,  a seat  in  the  heaven  may  be  reckon- 
ed on  for  the  destruction  of  well-chiseled  im- 
ages, and  the  putting  up  of  dingy  daubs  in  their 
room.  That  is  the  agreement  of  creeds  in  the 
matter  of  final  judgment.  As  for  Zoroaster, 
Solon,  and  Confucius,  time  has  left  us  but  faint 
and  fragmentary  outlines  of  their  philosophy, 
much  overlaid,  and  ill-reported  too.  It  is  proba- 
ble that  they  taught  the  populace  of  their  re- 
spective nations  somewhat  as  you  have  stated ; 
so  did  sages  since  and  before  them — it  was  a 
useful  dogma,  and  might  help  to  keep  the  mul- 
titude in  some  sort  of  order — but  did  they  not 
always  think  so,  my  friend  ? I doubt  if  philos- 
ophers could.  All  things,  as  far  as  our  knowl- 
edge or  investigation  extends — and  remember, 
there  is  no  reasoning  except  on  ascertained  data, 
no  seeing  but  by  the  light  we  have  got — all 
things,  then,  are  governed  by  fixed  laws,  in  the 
moral  as  well  as  the  material  world.  The  rev- 
olutions of  both  may  be  predicted  and  calculated 
with  equal  certainty ; what  people  call  accidents 
in  both  are  equally  the  product  of  unvarying 
rules.  Under  given  circumstances,  certain  vir- 
tues will  prevail — so  will  fair  weather;  and 
crimes  may  be  counted  on  as  surely  as  storms.” 


What  a stony,  statuesque  look  her  face  took 
while  she  spoke ! In  spite  of  the  finely-mould- 
ed features  and  soft  clear  complexion,  there  was 
something  positively  repulsive  in  its  hard,  cold 
expression — something  that  chilled  and  terri- 
fied, but  yet  led  me  on  with  the  discussion,  as 
if  I had  a personal  interest  in  it,  and  a discov- 
ery to  make. 

“But  are  not  those  fixed  laws  the  product  of 
Divine  wisdom,  and  is  it  to  be  imagined  that 
the  Divinity  is  not  just  and  good?” 

“I  know  not,”  she  said,  quickly ; “the  far- 
ther we  search  into  Nature,  the  more  the  Divin- 
ity recedes  from  us.  Perhaps  there  are  many 
powers  equally  supreme  in  their  provinces,  as 
my  classic  ancestors  believed.  Perhaps  there 
is  only  mind  and  matter,  both  subject  to  neces- 
sity, as  Plato  thought ; or,  more  likely,  the  two 
eternal  principles  of  the  Manichseans — but  here 
comes  Marco  with  the  coffee.” 

The  opportunity  thus  caught  to  turn  the  sub- 
ject was  given  her  by  the  entrance  of  an  old 
Greek — nobody  could  have  taken  the  man  for 
any  thing  else,  though  his  beard  was  white,  and 
long  enough  to  have  served  a Turkish  dervish. 
It  streamed  down  upon  his  breast;  his  hair, 
equally  straight  and  snowy,  flowed  over  his 
shoulders.  He  was  tall  and  erect,  and  brought 
in  a tray,  with  a service  of  plain  white  china  on 
it,  with  more  dignity  than  all  the  silent  serv- 
ants arranging  gold  and  silver  plate  in  those 
richly-furnished  rooms  behind  the  bank.  Ev- 
ery thing  in  her  woodland  villa  was  in  striking 
contrast  to  what  went  on  there  and  in  Curzon 
Street : those  were  the  residences  of  her  wealth 
and  fashion — here  she  lived  with  summer  and 
Simplicity ; perhaps  it  was  Madame’s  Arcadia. 

“You  are  admiring  Marco,”  she  said,  when 
the  old  man  had  served  us  with  the  coffee  and 
gone  out;  “he  is  a noble  specimen  of  Greek 
age ; handsome  to  the  last — at  least  I think  so 
— and  without  failure  or  infirmity,  though  now 
in  his  eighty-first  3'ear.  Yes,  you  may  wonder, 
but  that  man  is  Calixi’s  father.  He  was  born 
in  my  family’s  service ; his  father  and  mother 
came  with  the  Palivezi  from  Amsterdam,  and 
rest  in  a Dublin  church-yard.  Their  ancestors 
served  mine  in  Eastern  Russia ; and  Marco  and 
his  old  wife  Zoe  are  the  guardians  of  my  her- 
mitage, and  will  suffer  no  other  servants  to  wait 
on  me  here.” 

While  she  spoke,  it  just  crossed  me,  though 
not  for  the  first  time,  how  few  female  servants 
must  be  kept  in  her  establishments.  There  were 
maids  in  Curzon  Street ; I had  seen  them  look- 
ing out  by  chance  from  the  attic  and  basement 
windows.  Madame  Oniga  and  .her  discreet  sub- 
ordinates looked  after  the  necessities  of  the  bank 
people ; but  in  the  lady-superior’s  rooms  only 
men  were  to  be  seen,  and  here  there  were  none 
but  Marco. 

“ Does  the  old  woman  wait  upon  you  too  ?” 
I inquired,  by  way  of  a probe  at  that  curious 
subject. 

“No,”  said  Madame,  stirring  her  coffee,  and 
positively  guessing  my  thought,  “she  manages 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


73 


domestic  matters  behind  the  scenes ; it  is  an 
Asiatic  custom,  perhaps,  hut  one  that  takes  my 
fancy,  to  have  only  men-servants  about  me. 
Between  ourselves,  I have  no  great  liking  for 
women  in  general,  neither  had  any  of  the  Pali- 
vezi.  Their  restless  curiosity,  their  love  of  gos- 
sip, their  ready  instrumentality  to  all  sorts  of 
men,  and  priests  in  particular,  make  them  more 
troublesome  than  useful  to  the  head  of  a house 
like  ours.  Of  course  one  must  have  maids,  but 
I keep  as  few  as  I can.  Laugh  if  you  like,  my 
friend ; it  is  all  true,  though  not  a chivalrous 
lesson  for  a fine  young  man ; but  we  won’t  waste 
our  time  with  the  world’s  shams;  you  know  it 
as  well  as  I do,  or  you  will  in  time.” 

“Is  it  not  a pity,”  said  I,  “that  the  educa- 
tion of  women,  both  in  Asia  and  Europe,  should 
be  so  defective  ? for  I presume  that  is  the  cause 
of  the  disqualifications  you  have  mentioned,  and 
many  more.” 

“I  don’t  think  it  is,”  said  Madame;  “the 
cause  lies  far  deeper,  namely,  in  Nature.  It  is 
one  of  the  fixed  laws  of  which  we  have  been 
talking — ay,  and  a law  of  necessity  too.  Do 
you  imagine  women  would  ever  do  the  duties 
Nature  imposes  on  them  if  they  had  the  intel- 
lectual capacity  of  men  ? Would  they  be  moth- 
ers and  nurses,  with  all  the  lowering  concomi- 
tants and  wretched  rewards  of  those  offices? 
No,  no,  my  friend ; the  world  would  come  to  its 
close,  or  rather  never  would  have  gone  forward. 
No  schooling,  no  training  can  make  them  other 
than  they  are,  differing  of  course  with  climates 
and  ages,  but  still  in  the  background,  as  the 
necessity  of  things  requires.” 

“ It  is  not  an  encouraging  doctrine  for  those 
who  have  hopes  of  human  progress,”  said  I. 
“ If  the  mothers,  and  consequently  fqrst  teachers 
of  mankind,  must  be  always  gossips  and  instru- 
ments, what  chance  is  there  for  their  sons  to  be- 
come wiser  or  better?” 

“Once  again,  I know  not,”  said  Madame. 
“But  doubtless  that  is  one  of  the  causes  which 
make  human  progress  such  a very  circuitous  af- 
fair.” 

“Yes,  Madame” — let  me  observe,  I did  not 
intend  to  flatter — “but  I think  there  are  some 
proofs  in  existence  against  your  fixed  law. 
What  do  you  account  yourself?” 

“ Simply  an  exception” — she  spoke  as  coolly 
as  if  it  had  been  about  the  coffee-cups — “ there 
are  such  to  every  rule.  There  is  no  law  of 
Nature  without  them ; they  also  exist  by  laws. 
It  was  my  destiny  to  be  one  of  them,  and  being 
such,  can  never  be  the  work  of  favorable  stars.” 
“ Is  it  then  your  opinion  that  you  would  have 
been  happier  without  the  better  intellect  or  ca- 
pacity which  you  think  an  exception  to  the  or- 
dinary rate  of  women  ?”  I felt  that  the  question 
was  too  much  of  a home-thrust  the  moment  it 
was  uttered,  but  she  looked  me  quietly  in  the 
face,  and  said,  4 4 1 can  not  tell ; at  the  worst,  it 
was  only  part  of  my  ill  luck.” 

“Your  ill  luck,  Madame?” 

“Yes,  my  friend.  Did  you  never  hear  of  a 
person  rich  and  unlucky  ? What  about  the 


Fates  we  have  just  spoken  of?  What  about 
the  election  and  reprobation — having  to  do  the 
thing  one  hates  and  shrinks  from ; having  the 
memory  of  its  like  done  long  ago,  to  darken 
one’s  days,  and  mingle  with  one’s  dreams? 
Lucien,  Lucien”  — she  had  never  called  me  by 
my  name  before — “you  know  not  what  terri- 
ble work  those  Parcse  do  in  the  dark  places  of 
life ; what  fearful  threads  they  spih  for  us,  and 
leave  us  no  escape  but  by  using  their  scissors.” 
She  was  wringing  her  hands  and  looking  so 
desperately  miserable,  that,  without  knowing 
what  I did,  I sprung  to  my  feet  and  was  at  her 
side  in  an  instant.  But  the  next  she  had  recov- 
ered herself  by  a sudden  and  powerful  effort ; 
the  face  grew  calm,  even  careless ; while  she 
motioned  me  to  my  seat,  and  said,  as  if  nothing 
more  particular  had  passed,  “ You  and  I shall 
never  agree  in  our  views  except  to  differ,  I be- 
lieve ; but  as  for  the  education  question,  trust 
me,  you  will  not  think  so  much  of  it  when  you 
are  ten  years  married.” 

It  was  an  instinctive  sympathy,  and  not  the 
hope  of  surprising  her  secret,  that  made  me  rise  and 
rush  to  her  side,  and,  though  Madame  had  check- 
ed herself,  from  pride  or  prudence — I never  could 
be  sure  which  was  strongest  in  that  woman — she 
evidently  knew  and  did  justice  to  my  motives. 
Her  eye  rested  kindly,  almost  gratefully,  on  me. 
How  tender  and  confiding  that  glance  could  be- 
come for  one  who  had  spoken  out  such  bold  opin- 
ions— not  with  the  weakness  of  the  sex  to  which 
she  belonged,  and  despised  so  cordially,  but,  as 
it  seemed  to  me,  with  the  feminine  element,  so 
called  for  want  of  a better  name,  the  feeling, 
the  sentiment,  inseparable  from  all  imaginative 
characters.  Her  thoughts  were  not  with  her 
words ; neither  were  mine,  though  I answered, 
“ I don’t  know  what  I may  think  when  I am 
ten  years  married,  but  Heaven  forbid  that  my 
companion  for  that  space  of  time  should  be  one 
of  the  kind  you  have  described  so  graphically  as 
instruments  and  gossips.” 

44  If  I did  say  so,  those  terms  include  a large 
portion  of  creation’s  fairer  part,”  said  Madame, 
laughing.  She  was  herself  again,  but  we  had 
come  nearer  each  other  by  some  miles,  if  mind- 
distance  can  be  so  measured,  and  could  never 
more  fall  back  to  our  former  remoteness. 

“ No  doubt  it  does ; but  how  could  a man 
think  Of  spending  his  life  in  such  company  ?” 

“ There  would  not  be  much  pleasure  or  profit 
in  it,  certainly,  if  the  gossip  and  instrumental- 
ity were  at  your  expense  ; but  might  they  not 
be  turned  to  your  benefit  ? if  not,  remember,  it 
will  be  your  own  fault.  Take  my  advice,  Lu- 
cien, it  is  that  of  an  older  observer,  and  obser- 
vation serves  us  sometimes  as  well  as  direct  ex- 
perience. Take  care  to  secure  the  affections 
and  the  respect,  perhaps  I ought  to  say  the  rev- 
erence, of  the  woman  you  wed.  Yes,  it  may 
be  very  true  that  any  sort  of  reverence  is  a good 
deal  beyond  your  merits — it  is  beyond  that  of 
most  men,”  said  Madame,  answering  my  amused 
look — 44  but  if  you  can  get  some  simple,  proper, 
housekeeping  girl  to  think  you  the  greatest  man 


74 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


in  all  creation — the  most  worthy  to  be  attended, 
cooked  for,  and  listened  to  — you  will  insure  a 
happy  home  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  that  word. 
Never  mind  intellect  and  education ; they  are 
not  wanted  for  getting  ready  a good  dinner,  or 
warming  one’s  slippers.  The  nursery  can  be 
kept  clean  and  noisy  without  them ; the  shirt 
buttons  can  be  put  on,  the  holes  in  the  stockings 
darned,  the  children  taught  their  catechism,  the 
maids  scolded  into  good  behavior,  the  back  par- 
lor kept  in  good  order,  and  the  tea-parties  prop- 
erly managed.  These  are  the  tangible  things 
which  make  life  run  smoothly  on  in  the  domes- 
tic groove.” 

“Very  necessary  things,  no  doubt,”  said  I ; 
“but  is  there  nothing  more  wanted  in  one’s  life 
companion  ? The  stockings  might  be  darned, 
the  dinners  cooked,  and  the  catechism  taught 
in  the  most  unexceptionable  manner,  and  the 
unfortunate  man  for  whom  all  was  done  so 
properly  be  as  solitary  as  I have  been  in  the  old 
bachelor’s  boarding-house  in  Baltimore.  What 
pleasure  or  pi’ofit  could  there  be  in  such  a life  ? 
What  real  attachment  could  one  have  to  a wom- 
an with  whom  one  cuold  not  exchange  a single 
thought  except  on  the  quality  of  the  mutton  or 
the  amount  of  the  Christmas  bill,  suppose  she 
did  think  one  th^greatest  man  in  all  creation, 
or  warmed  one’s  slippers  as  dutifully  as  the 
evening  fell?” 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

REVELATIONS . 

“Men  were  deceivers  ever,”  says  the  old 
song;  strange  to  say,  involuntary  deceivers 
sometimes.  I had  no  intention,  no  cause  for 
playing  the  hypocrite  to  Madame  Palivez  just 
then ; yet  while  I said  this  and  a great  deal 
more  about  the  bond  of  common  sentiments  and 
the  companionship  of  mind,  I was  perfectly  aware 
that  between  my  plighted  bride  Rosanna  and 
myself  there  was  not  a link  of  taste  or  thought, 
not  a sentiment  or  aspiration  in  common.  How 
well  I maintained  my  position,  nevertheless ; 
how  earnestly  I argued  for  the  absolute  indis- 
pensability of  kindred  tastes  and  modes  of  think- 
ing in  married  life  — ay,  and  believed  what  I 
was  saying;  it  was  the  voice  of  the  doubt  re- 
garding our  future  which  had  crossed  me  many 
a time  in  Rosanna’s  presence,  though  I knew  it 
not,  and  went  on  waxing  more  and  more  elo- 
quent on  my  subject,  till  Madame  stopped  me 
with,  “ My  dear  fellow,  men’s  wives  are  not  al- 
ways their  companions,  nor  intended  to  be  so  in 
the  sense  of  which  you  speak.  The  domestic 
offices  require  far  different  qualifications  from 
those  which  gild  the  social  hour  or  brighten  up 
the  converse  of  intellectual  friendship.  Believe 
me,  it  is  nothing  but  the  inconsistency  of  human 
selfishness  that  expects  the  union  of  such  incom- 
patible things.  It  is  that  makes  the  homes  of 
Europe,  and  particularly  those  of  England,  so 
full  of  small  disquiet  and  petty  strife.  The 


wife’s  world  is  not  kept  distinct  enough  from 
that  of  the  husband.  It  is  naturally  narrower, 
and  its  bounds  can  not  be  much  enlarged  with 
safety  : so  the  man  has  pressed  down  to  it,  the 
requisitions  of  the  family  absorb  his  life,  domes- 
tic necessities  and  proprieties  force  every  thing 
else  out  of  their  way,  they  make  continual  inroads 
on  all  social  liberty,  lay  continued  embargoes  on 
thought ; the  art,  the  literature,  and  the  intel- 
lect of  the  nation  are  befamilied,  and  made  to 
fit  into  the  corners  of  nurseries  and  back  parlors, 
and  a general  dwindling  and  dullness,  except  in 
matters  merely  mechanical,  is  the  evident  con- 
sequence. My  Greek  ancestors  knew  better 
how  to  manage  life.  With  them  the  house  and 
family  were  necessary,  but  private  institutions, 
which  did  not  go  abroad  with  the  man  to  festive 
board  and  philosophic  school.  Thought  was 
free,  art  was  glorious,  and  life  was  large  and 
liberal.  The  domestic  world  had  rights,  immu- 
nities, and  enjoyments  of  its  own,  on  which  those 
of  the  outer  circle  did  not  trespass.  The  matron 
reigned  over  maid  and  distaff  without  fear  of 
being  behind  the  times;  kept  her  proprieties, 
and  fulfilled  her  duties.  The  master  of  a house 
did  not  lose  his  friends,  his  tastes,  and  his  social 
existence  when  he  happened  to  get  married.  I 
am  talking  a good  deal  on  this  subject,  you  see, 
because  I have  heard  that  you  are  about  to  enter 
into  the  happy  state,  and  also  because  I under- 
stand you  have  chosen  wisely,  Lucien,  foolishly 
as  you  talk,  to  put  me  off  the  scent,  I suppose,” 
and  she  laughed  again  with  all  her  heart. 

What  was  it  that  made  me  sit  confounded  and 
silent  for  almost  a minute  ? It  was  natural  that 
Madame  should  have  known  my  engagement  to 
Rosanna,  for  Esthers  knew  it ; yet  her  plain 
speaking  qn  the  subject  took  me  by  surprise, 
and  I could  only  stammer  out,  “ I hope  I have 
chosen  wisely ; but  indeed  I did  not  mean  to  put 
you  off  at  all.” 

“Well,  I thought  you  did,  partly  because  I 
was  told  that  your  intended,  Miss  Joyce — is  not 
that  her  name  ? — was  quite  the  simple  sprt  of 
girl  who  would  think  you  the  greatest  man,  and 
all  the  rest  of  it.  Very  domestic,  is  she  not — 
likely  to  be  an  excellent  housekeeper,  and  very 
pretty  into  the  bargain?” 

Madame  was  quite  serious  now,  and  I had  to 
give  a serious  answer. 

“Rosanna  Joyce  is  pretty,  and  we  have  been 
engaged  for  some  time.  About  her  housekeep- 
ing abilities  I am  not  so  certain ; she  has  been 
in  a manner  brought  up  by  an  elder  sister,  a 
rather  eccentric  and  not  very  orderly  person.” 

‘ ‘ Oh,  she  is  any  thing  but  orderly.  I know 
something  about  that  Sally  Joyce — in  fact,  about 
the  vfiiole  family.  The  father,  and  afterward 
the  son,  was  employed  in  our  bank  when  it  was 
in  Dublin.  I forget  how  many  years  they  served 
us  honestly  and  faithfully ; but  we  had  no  use 
for  the  son — Sally’s  brother,  I mean — when  the 
house  removed  to  London,  and  I thought  it  my 
duty  to  give  the  family  a sort  of  pension  ; it  is 
bestowed  on  them  jointly,  and  will  descend  from 
the  one  to  the  other ; Jeremy  and  Rosanna  may 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


75 


come  to  share  it  between  them,  as  Sally’s  life  is 
not  a certain  one,  but  in  the  mean  time  she  has 
the  first  right  over  it.  As  you  say,  Sally  brought 
up  her  younger  brother  and  sister;  they  were 
left  early  orphans,  and  she  was  many  years  their 
senior.” 

“ Can  you  tell  me  who  Sally’s  mother  was?” 
said  I;  “she  boasts  of  her  as  having  been  a 
lady.” 

“ Sally’s  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a Jew 
money-lender  of  the  name  of  Reubens,”  said 
Madame,  without  the  slightest  change  of  look  ; 
your  family  knew  something  of  him,  I think  — 
most  business  people*  in  Ireland  did.  He  lent 
money  and  he  made  money,  but,  unlike  a Jew, 
he  contrived  to  lose  it  again ; indeed,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  our  house — but  I say  so  in  confi- 
dence— the*old  man  must  have  ended  his  days 
in  the  Marshalsea,  as  many  a better  man  did. 
The  Palavezi  were  friends  to  him  first  and  last; 
perhaps  you  will  say  they  had  some  right ; for 
his  daughter  Esther  — a large,  handsome,  full- 
blooded  Jewess,  who  got  no  education  or  school- 
ing of  any  kind  but  the  general  impression  that 
she  was  to  be  an  heiress ; that  her  father  was 
a miser,  and  it  was  her  privilege  to  spend  as 
much  as  she  could — became  the  fair  friend— mis- 
tress is  your  English  term  for  it — of  my  uncle, 
Alexis  Palivez,  the  only  one  of  our  house  who 
lived  and  died  unmarried.  Mr.  Esthers  is  their 
child;  according  to  Jewish  custom,  he  takes 
his  mother’s  name,  though  in  the  Saxon  form, 
and  of  course  the  house  provides  for  him  ; 
but,  by  a special  agreement  some  time  before 
my  uncle’s  death,  they  separated,  and  she  mar- 
ried our  Irish  clerk,  Jeremy  Joyce.  The  son  is 
called  after  him,  and  our  friend  Sally  was  the 
only  child  of  that  marriage — born,  not  to  the 
inheritance  of  her  mother’s  beauty,  but  to  that 
of  a peculiar  and  unsafe  constitution,  both  of 
body  and  mind,  which  may  have  been  the  re- 
sult of  a great  affection  for  strong  waters  which 
the  poor  woman  took  some  time  before  she  and 
my  uncle  parted,  and  continued  in,  to  the  short- 
ening of  her  own  days.” 

“Esthers  the  half-brother  of  Sally  Joyce!” 
said  I,  as  soon  as  astonishment  would  let  me 
speak.  “How  strange  that  neither  of  them 
should  have  ever  hinted  the  fact  to  me !” 

“ It  was  owing  to  a rule  of  our  house,”  said 
Madame,  with  immense  composure.  “ No  ille- 
gitimate connections  are  ever  permitted  to  claim 
relationship  with  the  Palivezi ; but  as  we  are 
friends,  and  you  are  engaged  to  the  younger 
sister,  I thought  it  better  to  let  you  know.  Re- 
member, Sally’s  mother  had  nothing  to  do  with 
Rosanna’s,  except  as  her  predecessor  in  old 
Jeremy’s  heart  and  home.  By-the-by,  he  was 
not  much  older  than  yourself  when  they  were 
married.  Come,  now,  what  are  you  in  such  a 
brown  study  about?” 

“Just  wondering  what  brought  the  Joyces 
from  America.”  I could  speak  plainly  to  her 
now.  “Rosanna  told  me  it  was  by  your  ad- 
vice they  went.” 

“ So  it  was;  and  it  might  have  been  well  if 


the3*had  remained  there.  Sally,  poor  soul!  is 
constitutionally  troublesome,  like  most  women 
with  strong  muscles  and  weak  brains.  Her  ab- 
sence would  have  been  a great  relief  to  her 
brother.  Of  course  it  was  only  on  his  account 
that  I took  any  notice  of  their  family  arrange- 
ments ; but  the  Atlantic  between  them  was  too 
quiet  a state  of  things  for  Sally  to  permit  any 
longer ; besides,  she  had  her  sister’s  fiance  to 
look  after  and  keep  steady,  I presume.  Lucien, 
my  friend,  don’t  be  so  ready  to  kindle  up  at  a 
jest.  I know  the  looking  after  was  unneces- 
sary, whatever  that  disturbed  and  capricious 
mind  might  imagine.  There  is  faith  and  con- 
stancy in  you,  if  ever  they  were  in  man  ; it  was 
the  brave  look  of  them  in  your  face  that  first 
drew  my  mind  to  you  before  I dreamt  of  your 
doing  me  such  good  service.” 

How  nobly  sincere  the  woman  looked — above 
disguise  or  conventionality ! The  words  seem- 
ed to  come  from  her  heart,  and  went  to  my  head 
like  new  wine ; but  she  left  me  no  time  to 
answer  her. 

“ I know  you  will  keep  true  and  loyal  to  the 
choice  your  own  heart  made  and  sacrificed  so 
much  for.  It  was  bravely  done,  Lucien,  and 
foolishly  too.  There  is  no  love,  no  beauty 
wrorth  the  loss  of  wealth  and  position  — at 
least,  people  think  so  at  my  years,  and  an  old 
woman  will  speak  out  her  mind  ; but  it  was  a 
brave,  romantic  kind  of  folly,  such  as  we  don’t 
meet  with  every  day — such  as  every  man  is  not 
capable  of — such  as  one  dreamt  of  in  one’s 
youth  ; and  therefore  I respect  it.  Mr.  O’Neil 
himself  told  me  the  particulars  in  a letter,  poor 
man  ! but  he  was  angry  about  it,  and  no  wonder. 
Lucien,  your  uncle  is  of  good  family,  and  so  are 
you.  But  the  choice  was  made,  and  I know  you 
will  abide  by  it  honestly  and  courageously,  with- 
out regret  for  the  loss  or  shrinking  from  the 
consequences.  We  never  could  agree  on  the 
matter  of  the  heavy  sacrifice — I mean  your 
uncle’s  good  graces  and  testament ; but,  leaving 
that  aside  as  a settled  question,  I think  you 
chose  wisely  as  to  the  woman.  I have  seen 
Rosanna  Joyce  ; she  is  just  the  sort  of  girl  to 
make  a good,  useful,  manageable  wife.  Her 
domestic  education  may  not  have  been  of  the 
most  regular  kind  under  Sally’s  governance,  but 
she  is  not  too  old  to  learn  better ; the  instruc- 
tion and  example  of  your  friends  the  Masons, 
or  even  of  their  brother-in-law,  Watt  Wilson — • 
he  is  great  in  housekeeping,  I understand — ■ 
would  do  wonders  for  her.  And  you  are  won-, 
dering  how  I happen  to  know  so  much  of  these 
people.  Oh,  my  fine  young  man ! a lonely, 
loveless,  graceless  life  like  mine  affords  great 
opportunities  for  studying  one’s  neighbors  of  all 
classes.  In  short,  I think  you  may  marry  with 
a very  fair  chance  of  happiness,  as  that  article 
goes  among  us ; but  there  is  one  provision  ab- 
solutely necessary  for  its  security,  and  that  is, 
to  get  your  excellent  sister-in-law — why  does 
that  startle  you?  I mean  Sally  Joyce — fixed 
somewhere  at  a proper  distance ; and  remem- 
ber, the  farther  off  the  better.  If  she  could  be 


76 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


persuaded  to  go  back  to  Dublin,  or  the  county 
Mayo — the  native  seat  of  the  family,  I believe ; 
or  if — you  will  set  me  down  for  a hardened  sin- 
ner, I fear — her  head  went  a little  farther  off 
the  balance,  she  might  be  placed  with  advan- 
tage to  herself  and  every  body  else  in  some 
private,  well-managed  asylum.  I should  take 
care  that  the  charges  of  her  sojourn  there  would 
not  fall  on  you.” 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  my  face  with  a look 
hard,  keen,  and  piercing  as  cold  steel.  She  was 
as  calm  as  one  of  the  marble  vases.  She  was 
speaking  entirely  for  my  interest — advising,  as 
it  were,  out  of  pure  friendship ; but  the  ragged 
man,  with  his  hoarse  growl  and  long  knife, 
turned  up  in  my  memory  as  she  spoke.  I knew 
it  was  not  on  Esthers’  account  that  she  had 
taken  notice  of  their  family  arrangements,  and 
I knew  that  it  was  not  on  mine  that  she  advised 
Sally’s  removal  to  a proper  distance,  or  a pri- 
vate, well-managed  asylum.  For  all  the  wealth 
she  owned — for  all  I had  sacrificed,  as  she  said, 
so  foolishly — I could  not  have  put  those  thoughts 
in  words,  or  asked  her  the  direct  question, 
“What  interest  have  you  in  getting  rid  of  Sally 
Joyce  ?”  But  some  instinct — for  it  could  have 
been  nothing  else — prompted  me  to  look  her 
fairly  in  the  face,  and  say, 

“ Madame  Palivez,  was  it  you  who  purchased 
the  annuity  for  my  grand-aunt  and  sister?” 

“It  was,  Lucien,”  she  said,  with  no  appear- 
ance of  being  taken  by  surprise,  “though  I did 
not  wish  you  to  think  that  I had  done  so.  Re- 
member, it  was  not  intended  for  any  form  of 
recompense ; but  I knew  your  family  circum- 
stances, I believed  in  your  constancy,  and  I did 
myself  the  great  pleasure  of  removing  the  only 
obstacle  which  stood  between  you  and  the  ful- 
fillment of  your  engagement.  Let  me  hope 
that  you  will  recollect  our  compact  of  friendship 
sufficiently  to  give  me  no  thanks  or  acknowl- 
edgments ; allow  the  matter  to  rest  as  if  it 
were  known  only  to  Messrs.  Kelly  and  Carson, 
and  go  on  your  way  to  domestic  peace  and 
comfort.  But  you  know  what  an  old  woman’s 
curiosity  is  ; so  please  to  tell  me,  When  do  you 
propose  finishing  the  little  business  ?” 

I can  not  remember  in  what  words  I answer- 
ed ; they  must  have  been  rather  vague,  for  my 
mind  was  in  a hazy  turmoil  of  conflicting 
thoughts ; but  I got  them  shoved  aside  for  the 
time,  and  by  a few  more  questions  Madame 
made  out  and  highly  approved  of  my  prudent 
arrangements  in  the  matter  of  making  Rosanna 
acquainted  with  my  aunt  and  sister,  and  seeing 
if  there  was  any  possibility  of  the  parties  living 
agreeably  together.  She  seemed  to  enter  at 
once  into  my  feelings  on  the  subject  of  keeping 
these  only  relations  with  me. 

“ It  is  wise  and  worthy  of  you,  Lucien.  Your 
poor  old  aunt  is  too  hear  the  final  removal,  by 
all  appearance — for  I have  seen  her — to  get  well 
established  in  another  home ; and  your  sister 
has  qualities  in  her,  or  I am  mistaken,  too  rare 
and  good  to  be  parted  with.  If  Rosanna  and 
she  can  fall  into  each  other’s  ways,  and  I think 


they  will,  you  will  have  in  the  one  exactly  what  is 
wanting  in  the  other,  and  so  build  a treble  bul- 
wark against  the  tides  and  storms  of  life.  It 
is  well  planned,  and  I hope  will  be  well  ex- 
ecuted, my  friend.  But  it  grows  late,  and  there 
was  one  special  reason  for  which  I wished  to 
see  you  this  evening.  I am  leaving  town — 
leaving  England.  How  long  or  short  my  ab- 
sence may  be,  I can  not  tell.  The  affairs  of 
our  house  require  my  presence  in  Russi  I 
will  not  remain  there  for  the  winter,  if  possible ; 
it  is  the  only  climate  I have  any  dread  of.  My 
return  may  be  very  soon,  perhaps  at  the  begin- 
ning of  autumn  ; but  you  have  the  key  I gave 
you  ; call  and  inquire  at  the  end  of  a month  if 
you  do  not  see  me  here,  or  at  the  back  rooms 
in  Broad  Street.  My  servants  will  give  you  an 
honest  answer.  And  there  was  another  thing 
I wanted  to  say  to  you.  You  go  to  the  Forbes’ 
mostly  on  Saturday  evenings.  It  was  an  old 
friendly  arrangement  made  before  you  knew 
me.  I have  been  the  cause  of  your  breaking 
through  it  once ; not  a good  turn,  Lucien, 
for  they  are  worthy  people  and  true  friends  to 
your  family,  though  some  darkening  shadow 
has  fallen  upon  their  lives.  Yes,  I know  there 
has,  and  it  is  that  as  well  as  the  note  she  takes 
of  me  which  gives  me  such  an  interest  in  that 
poor,  plain,  sober-looking  girl.  There  is  strange 
worth  in  her  too;  something  that  makes  one 
half  willing  to  believe  in  prayers  and  Bible 
reading  in  spite  of  one’s  knowledge  and  reason. 
And  sometimes  I have  caught  myself  wishing 
— I won’t  say  what — on  your  account,  Lucien.” 
“ On  my  account,  Madame  ? Miss  Forbes  is 
an  heiress,  and  I am  a clerk.” 

“ I know  you  are,  and  I know  she  is.  I also 
know  that  Helen  Forbes  is  not  by  a long  way  so 
pretty  as  Rosanna  Joyce  ; but  you  go  there  on 
Saturday  evenings,  and  you  ought  to  go ; but 
Sunday  is  their  penitential  day.  I should  like 
to  know  what  Forbes  has  to  do  special  penance 
for.  Let  that  evening  be  sacred  to  my  service, 
if  you  have  no  better  use  for  it.  Seeing  Rosan- 
na and  doing  duty  at  home  will  be  taxes 
enough  on  the  rest  of  your  leisure.” 

I agreed  to  the  arrangement,  as  I did  to  every 
thing  she  proposed.  We  had  some  talk  about 
the  judiciousness  of  my  introduction  scheme. 
The  expediency  of  getting  Sally  and  her  brother 
Jeremy,  for  he  was  now  included,  out  of  Lon- 
don — in  short  any  where  far  enough  off  — was 
once  more  insisted  on.  I agreed  to  it  with  all 
my  heart,  but  could  not  see  how  it  was  to  be 
effected ; on  which  she  passed  from  the  subject 
to  the  surrounding  flowers — to  the  summer 
night  which  now  hung  over  us,  soft,  dewy,  and 
starlit,  filling  the  open  room  with  woodland 
scents,  and  the  long  gushes  of  the  nightingale’s 
song.  “It  sings  there  among  the  laurels,”  said 
Madame,  “as  it  sang  in  the  Delphian  groves 
where  Apollo  gave  his  oracles,  and  unlucky  man 
had  a chance  of  seeing  Pan  and  nymphs.  The 
song  has  not  changed  like  the  creeds  and  na- 
tions ; it  belongs  to  nature,  to  beauty,  and  to 
poetry.  My  native  Greece  is  a ruined  tomb  or 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


temple  this  many  an  age ; but  Philomel  still 
laments  among  the  laurels,  and  fills  the  sum- 
mer night  with  the  story  of  her  woes.  Good- 
night, my  friend,”  she  added,  as  I rose  with  a 
sudden  recollection  that  it  must  be  past  mid- 
night. Madame  did  not  appear  to  have  any 
time-piece,  or  any  use  for  the  like  in  her  villa. 
“ Good-night,  and  good  fortune  go  with  you! 
Among  many  more,  you  have  got  the  two  vir- 
tues. ;at  help  to  bring  it — prudence  and  courage. 
They  also  help  to  make  you  the  friend  I want, 
if  such  can  be  found  at  all.  Don’t  forget  to 
call  and  inquire  after  me  ; and  once  more,  good- 
night.” 

She  clasped  my  hand  as  she  had  done  in  the 
evening  we  made  the  compact.  I said  good- 
night, and  wished  her  a good  journey  in  the 
usual  form ; but  when  at  the  door,  the  fact  that 
she  was  going  away  struck  me  so  forcibly  that  I 
turned  to  take  another  look.  There  she  sat, 
leaning  back  on  the  sofa;  her  hands  clasped  in 
her  lap,  her  head  bowed,  the  long  braids  of  jetty 
hair  getting  loose  and  streaming  over  her  long 
but  beautifully  moulded  neck.  The  woman 
looked  weary,  as  if  her  strength  and  spirits  had 
been  exhausted  with  the  wear  of  the  long  day. 
She  was  not  thinking  of  me,  yet  my  backward 
glance  pleased  her,  and  she  said,  smiling — the 
very  soul  of  summer  was  in  that  smile  of  hers — 
“We  shall  meet  again,  Lucien;  I will  return  in 
good  time  to  congratulate  you  and  Rosanna.” 

At  the  garden  gate  I found  old  Marco,  wait- 
ing with  a lantern  to  show  me  my  way  home 
through  the  park.  It  was  the  shortest  way  now 
I took,  for  the  Forbes’  must  be  all  asleep  for 
hours.  Nobody  could  see  me  from  the  bay 
window ; there  was  the  friendly  shade  of  night 
always  to  be  trusted  in,  and  along  a grassy  path 
winding  through  the  trees,  the  old  man  lighted 
me  to  the  very  spot  where  I had  seized  the  up- 
lifted arm  and  hurled  down  the  ragged  man. 
From  that  point  it  widened,  went  straight  down 
the  hill-side,  and  my  way  was  clear.  I told 
Marco  so,  wished  him  good-night,  thanked  him 
for  his  guidance,  and  assured  him  I should  easi- 
ly find  the  path  in  future.  The  old  man  re- 
sponded with  a courteous  gravity  which  might 
have  befitted  an  ancient  knight,  but  stepped  back 
from  the  silver  I thought  it  my  duty  to  offer  him 
with  a determined  bow,  and — “ The  signor  will 
excuse  me  for  assuring  him  that  the  Palivezi 
always  pay  their  servants.” 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A STRUGGLE  BETWEEN  LOVE  AND  DUTY. 

It  went  to  my  conscience  to  see  the  clock 
pointing  at  half  past  one  in  the  morning  when 
Rhoda,  who  had  been  sitting  up  alone  till  she 
caught  the  sound  of  my  step  in  the  silent  street, 
softly  opened  the  door  of  No.  9,  and  admitted 
me  without  knocking ; but  my  good  sister  look- 
ed tired  and  troubled. 

“I  knew  you  were  seeing  Rosanna,  and  sat 


77 

up  for  you,  Lucien ; but  is  it  fashionable  in 
America  to  stay  visiting  young  ladies  so  late?” 

“No,  Rhoda ; and  I would  not  have  staid  but 
for  particular  reasons — the  like  will  happen 
sometimes ; but  don’t  vex  yourself  about  it. 
When  I am  late,  never  sit  up  for  me ; I’ll  take 
the  latch-key  in  future.” 

“Oh,  I am  not  vexed  a bit ; I mended  your 
wristbands  and  darned  your  socks ; and  I know 
you’ll  never  do  any  thing  onbecoming;  but, 
Lucien,  I don’t  think  my  aunt  is  well  to-day. 
She  didn’t  get  up  till  the  afternoon,  and  went 
to  bed  again  early  in  the  evening.  I never  saw 
nobody  so  altered:  she  prays  so  much,  and  don’t 
scold  at  all ; nothing  sets  her  on  as  it  used  to 
do  since  that  fright  she  got  with  the  lightning. 
She  has  been  talking  a good  deal  about  Rosanna 
and  you,  quite  kind-like,  with  not  a bit  of  a grum- 
ble, which  is  not  her  common,  you  know.  In 
course  I told  her  that  the  Joyces  had  come  from 
America,  and  that  you  were  over  seeing  them ; 
and  she  said  nothing  at  all  but  ‘ the  Lord’s  will 
be  done!’  Lucien,  I am  afraid  what  she  said 
to  us  on  the  walk  home  from  the  Masons  is  go- 
ing to  come  true.  It  was  just  how  the  rest 
went,  changing  so  much  before  they  were  called 
away ; and  the  fretfullest  of  them,  that  was  poor 
Alice — you  don’t  mind  her,  maybe — turned  the 
quietest.  Lucien,  I am  afeard  Miss  Livy  won’t 
be  long  with  us and  the  tears  stood  in  Rhoda’s 
eyes. 

“Well,  Rhoda,  she  is  an  old  woman,  and  we 
must  all  die  some  time ; but  there  is  no  certain- 
ty in  these  things — Miss  Livy  may  outlive  you 
and  me.  Good-night,  and  get  to  bed  like  a good 
girl.” 

My  sister  cast  a look  of  surprise  up  the  stairs 
after  me ; the  words  might  have  sounded  cold 
and  queer  to  her.  I went  to  my  own  room,  but 
not  to  bed  ; sleep  to  my  eyes  was  an  impossibil- 
ity that  night.  How  many  sleeps  we  lose  before 
the  long  one  comes  ! I opened  the  window  and 
sat  down  by  it.  It  was  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
and  overlooked  pleasant  meadows,  with  tall  trees 
and  green  hedgerows,  on  which  the  starlight 
glistened,  and  the  light  wind  whispered  among 
the  leaves.  Dewy  and  fragrant  those  airs  of 
the  summer  night  played  round  my  temples,  but 
could  not  reach  or  cool  the  fever  that  throbbed 
within.  I had  made  a terrible  discovery — one 
which  no  after-chance  could  effectually  hide 
from  me.  Like  Adam  after  his  fall,  my  eyes 
had  been  opened  to  see  the  precipice  over  which 
I had  slipped,  and  the  depth  that  still  lav  before 
me.  The  knowledge  had  come  late  but  sud- 
denly, as  such  knowledge  always  comes.  My 
way  down  the  hill-side,  and  through  the  sleep- 
ing village  homeward,  was  not  ten  minutes’ 
rapid  walk;  yet  in  that  space  there  was  made 
clear  to  me — was  it  the  deceitfulness  of  the  hu- 
man heart  that  kept  me  from  knowing  earlier  ? 
— that  I was  engaged  to  one  woman  and  fallen 
in  love  with  another. 

Ay,  fallen  in  love — there  is  no  form  better 
than  that  old  rustic  phrase  to  express  those 
woeful  mistakes  or  mischances,  which  prove,  to 


78 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


the  best  and  wisest  among  us,  that  their  hearts 
are  not  their  own  to  keep  or  give  away. 

Madame  Palivez  had  never  treated  me  in  a 
manner  to  flatter  my  pride,  vanity,  or  self-es- 
teem. The  friendship  she  had  offered  was  one 
not  to  be  acknowledged  before  the  world — not 
thought  of  till  I had  been  of  signal  service  to 
her.  If  it  were  friendship — it  was  nothing 
warmer,  easily  as  men  deceive  themselves  on 
that  point — I knew,  in  the  very  depths  of  my 
nature,  that  the  woman  did  not  care  for  me  ex- 
cept as  a useful,  humble  friend — humble  com- 
panion, rather — to  whom  she  spoke  what  it 
pleased  her  to  utter  of  notions  and  opinions  not 
proper  to  promulgate  in  Mayfair  and  Belgravia. 
She  had  approved  my  choice,  and  applauded  my 
constancy  to  another,  with  a sincerity  I could 
not  doubt,  though  the  applause  sounded  like  a 
ghastly  mockery  in  my  ears.  With  her  own 
hand  she  had  given  me  the  means  of  fulfilling 
my  engagement  with  one  of  the  connection  not 
allowed  to  claim  relationship  with  the  Palivezi. 
She  had  predicted  better  things  than  I had  ven- 
tured to  hope  of  Rosanna  and  our  domestic  life. 
She  had  also  set  the  relation  between  us  in  a 
light  by  which  I could  not  have  looked  upon  it 
once,  which,  whether  false  or  true — and  I can 
not  settle  that  with  myself  to  this  day — was  not 
consonant  with  the  mind  or  manners  of  home- 
loving  England.  She  had  shown,  or  allowed 
me  to  see,  that  there  were  unexplained  objects 
underlying  her  friendship ; there  might  be  one 
in  marrying  me  to  Rosanna — there  was  one  in 
getting  rid  of  her  sister ; the  hard,  keen  glance 
with  which  she  spoke  of  the  private,  well-man- 
aged asylum,  and  the  recollections  it  called  up, 
haunted  me  like  a warning  dream.  The  notes 
of  the  Palivezi  bank  had  bought  the  annuity  for 
my  aunt  and  sister — the  blood-money,  as  poor 
Miss  Livy  called  it;  and  with  that  thought  came 
back  the  growl  of  the  ragged  maniac,  “You 
murdered  him,  you  sorceress !” 

It  was  an  impossibility  to  believe  that  Ma- 
dame had  aught  to  do  with  the  disappearance 
of  my  lost  brother.  True,  the  bank  had  been 
in  Castle  Street,  where  he  was  last  seen ; but 
where  was  the  motive  ? where  was  the  probabil- 
ity ? I couldn’t  have  believed  in  one  if  it  had 
been  proved  to  exist ; yet,  in  spite  of  her  sunny 
smile  and  lovely  eyes,  an  impression  had  crept 
into  my  mind — like  oozing  waters,  coming  by 
drops,  but  not  to  be  barred  out — that  some  taint 
of  ci  ime  clung  to  her  and  hers.  They  were 
bold,  bad  doctrines  those  which  she  had  preach- 
ed to  me  concerning  fate  and  necessity — sub- 
versive of  all  moral  obligation,  repugnant  to  my 
own  convictions,  and  especially  dangerous  to 
unstable  and  inexperienced  youth.  Yet,  against 
my  better  judgment,  in  spite  of  principles  and 
inwrard  warnings,  there  seemed  to  be  a leaven 
of  dark  truth  in  them,  for  I loved  Madame  Pa- 
livez. 

She  was  my  senior  by  I knew  not  how  many 
years,  and  still  more  so  in  knowledge  and 
thought;  it  may  be  hard  to  account  for,  but 
I hold  that  these  are  powerful  causes  of  lead- 


ing men  into  captivity,  particularly  when  ac- 
companied by  such  singular  beauty  as  hers. 
We  had  not  met  often — perhaps  there  was  a 
charm  in  that,  too ; it  was  not  her  position,  not 
her  surroundings,  not  her  wealth — from  these 
there  might  have  been  liberation ; but,  woe  is 
me ! it  was  the  woman  I loved — the  woman  who 
did  not  and  could  not  care  for  me.  Did  she 
ever  care  for  any  body  ? was  it  in  her  nature  ? 
I could  not  tell ; but  I felt  certain — it  was  the 
only  certainty  I had  about  her — that  I was  not 
the  man.  And  then  the  girl  who  loved  and 
trusted  me,  to  whom  I was  bound  by  honor  and 
conscience — my  own  free  choice,  for  whom  I had 
sacrificed  prospects  and  position ! She  was  wait- 
ing for  me  in  the  miserable  attic,  with  that  eld- 
er sister — justly  described  as  constitutionally 
troublesome — with  al,l  the  weariness  of  hope  de- 
ferred, and  the  faithful  confidence  so  often  ex- 
pressed by  that  low,  soft  whisper,  “Lucien,  I 
could  trust  you  to  the  end  of  the  world ; I know 
you  will  never  forsake  me.”  What  ashes  of 
shame  and  sorrow  the  remembrance  of  it  flung 
on  my  head  now ! That  very  evening  I had 
disappointed  her,  and  gone  at  Madame’s  call. 
It  was  a case  beyond  explanation — beyond  re- 
trievement ; the  bondage  into  w hich  my  heart 
had  fallen  it  never  could  break  through. 

But  the  duty  was  clear.  In  spite  of  her  ar- 
guing for  the  Fates,  I felt  myself  an  accountable 
being  and  a free  agent,  as  far  as  the  choice  of 
right  or  wrong.  That  duty,  with  God’s  help,  I 
would  do ; fulfill  my  promise  to  Rosanna,  now 
that  every  obstacle  was  removed ; make  her  a 
good  and  faithful  husband ; valuing,  if  I could 
not  return  her  affections,  and  never  allowing 
her  to  know  that  my  heart  had  wandered  to 
another.  It  was.  a resolution  hard  to  make  and 
hard  to  keep,  for  it  involved  giving  up  all  asso- 
ciation with  Madame  Palivez.  Being  honest  in 
my  determination,  I knew  that  her  society,  pri- 
vate and  unacknowledged  as  it  was  to  be,  could 
not  be  retained  with  safety  to  my  own  or  to  Ro- 
sanna’s peace.  Yet  how  was  it  to  be  given  up? 
how  was  the  state  of  the  case  to  be  explained  to 
her?  I shrunk  from  the  prospect  of  it;  yet 
given  up  our  friendship  must  be.  There  were 
a thousand  reasons  that  made  it  unsafe,  unad- 
visable  for  me,  had  Rosanna  never  existed.  The 
woman  did  not,  could  not  care  for  me  or  my 
foolish  love.  I was  a man,  come  to  man’s  es- 
tate ; not  nurtured  in  an  easy  school,  nor  given 
to  womanish  ways ; yet  that  thought  made  me 
bow  my  head  on  the  window-sill,  and  weep  there 
like  a child.  I looked  up  with  something  like 
shame,  and  dashed  away  the  tears,  for  another 
day  was  breaking.  The  whiteness  of  the  early 
dawn  was  already  flushed  by  the  regal  sunrise ; 
I heard  the  lark  going  up  to  heaven  with  his 
song  as  I had  heard  it  in  the  morning  when  her 
life  was  saved : another  day  for  work,  for  duty, 
for  brave  resolves  and  honest  striving,  had  come ; 
and  I rose  with  it,  determined  to  do  my  part  of 
them,  and  act  as  became  a man. 

I went  to  business  punctually  that  day,  and 
worked  with  more  than  usual  exactness.  Est- 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


79 


hers  must  have  thought  there  was  something 
particular  on  my  mind,  for  he  took  opportuni- 
ties to  observe  me  in  his  stealthy  manner,  and 
made  efforts  to  draw  me  out,  but  did  not  suc- 
ceed. I had  been  warned  of  the  man  from  the 
earliest  dawn  of  our  acquaintance  ; the  knowl- 
edge that  he  was  Sally  Joyce’s  half-brother  did 
not  lessen  that  warning.  The  Joyces  had  kept 
the  fact  from  me,  but  Madame  Palivez  had  ex- 
plained the  why  and  wherefore ; and  I thought 
it  more  generous,  perhaps  more  prudent,  to  con- 
tinue in  apparent  ignorance  of  it,  even  with  Ro- 
sanna. 

I went  to  see  her  in  the  evening,  and  was  re- 
ceived with  smiles : no  reproach  had  the  poor 
girl  for  my  broken  appointment.  Sally  had  got 
over  her  fits,  and  Jeremy  told  me  he  was  to  get 
a situation  next  week  in  Mr.  Forbes’s  bank. 
“So  much  for  Esther’s  important  intelligence,” 
thought  I.  If  he  did  wish  his  semi-relations  at  a 
distance,  there  was  no  want  of  intimacy  and  serv- 
ice between  them.  Jeremy  would  form  anoth- 
er link  to  the  Forbes’,  their  house  and  business: 
but  what  was  that  to  me?  I had  my  own  duties 
to  do,  and  should  be  glad  to  see  Rosanna’s  brother 
provided  with  a clerkship ; yet  it  was  a strange 
and  not  comfortable  idea  to  find  my  own  life  so 
much  interwoven  with  the  meshes  of  other  peo- 
ple’s private  management. 

I saw  the  house  in  Curzon  Street  shut  up  as 
if  its  season  were  over,  and  reproached  myself 
for  looking  at  it.  I put  the  brass  key  away  in 
the  corner  of  my  desk,  resolving  never  to  use  it, 
never  to  call  at  back-rooms  or  villa  if  I could 
help  it ; and  the  fprm  of  a letter  wherein  to  de- 
clare my  reasons  and  wishes  for  breaking  up  our 
compact,  and  seeing  each  other  no  more,  was 
earnestly  endeavored  after,  but  could  not  be  ac- 
complished. I tried  hard,  and  I was  resolved 
to  forget  her,  as  my  only  chance  of  safety  and 
peace  ; but  through  the  work  of  the  day  and 
the  dreams  of  the  night,  through  my  dry  chats 
with  Esthers  and  my  seeings  of  Rosanna,  the 
tones  of  her  voice,  the  looks  of  her  eyes,  the 
snowy  arms  as  I had  seen  them  last  under  the 
loose  muslin  sleeves ; the  jetty  hair  loosening 
from  its  braids  ; the  full,  fine  form,  so  graceful, 
so  careless  in  its  movements ; the  words,  the 
thoughts  she  had  uttered,  came  back  upon  me 
like  so  many  spells.  I could  get  rid  of  them 
in  the  streets,  or  when  deeply  engaged  in  bank 
business,  but  at  home  or  alone— and,  strange  to 
say,  more  particularly  with  Rosanna — they  re- 
turned continually.  I remember  admiring  a 
piece  of  needlework  she  was  doing  by  way  of 
conversation,  and  all  the  while  thinking  of 
Madame’s  hands,  and  what  a contrast  they  were 
to  hers — for  my  bride-elect  was  not  fortunate  in 
that  department.  I remember  taking  her  out 
for  walks,  and  feeling  heartily  tired  of  talking 
to  her  about  passing  trifles.  It  was  worse  to 
talk  of  any  thing  else,  for  I knew  she  did  not 
understand  me,  and  never  would.  What  a great- 
gulf  had  opened  between  us  since  the  moonlight 
evenings  when  we  walked  and  talked  together 
in  the  outskirts  of  Baltimore ! Rosanna  listen- 


ed to  me  then,  and  that  was  sufficient ; but  I 
had  listened  to  one  since,  and  what  she  would 
have  answered  or  thought  on  every  subject  we 
spoke  of,  came  up  to  my  mind  when  the  poor 
girl  was  saying,  “ Goodness  me ! and  I am  sure 
I don’t  know.” 

I remember  taking  her  to  Covent  Garden, 
where  the  Kembles  were  in  full  force.  But  I 
had  heard  plays  and  actors  artistically  discussed ; 
I had  some  inkling  of  taste  ilnd  judgment  my- 
self. Rosanna  looked  as  pretty  in  her  small  fin- 
ery, as  flushed  and  fluttered  with  delight  to  find 
herself  actually  in  a theatre,  as  she  had  looked 
at  the  Baltimore  plays ; but  the  wonder  and  the 
pleasure  which  had  once  charmed  me  were  now 
childish,  if  not  silly.  It  was  evident  that  the 
men  in  the  pit  and  the  ladies  in  the  boxes  occu- 
pied her  attention  much  more  than  the  stage ; 
and  when  I looked  round  from  Kemble’s  great 
scene  of  King  John  suggesting  the  murder  to 
Hubert,  I found  her  yawning  behind  her  pink 
fan,  and  saying,  “Isn’t  that  wonderful  ?”as  she 
caught  my  eye. 

The  duty  was  hard,  but  I went  through  with 
it ; it  was  Madame  Palivez  that  made  Rosan- 
na so  uninteresting.  The  girl  was  what  she 
had  ever  been ; and  yet,  in  spite  of  my  utmost 
efforts,  her  deficiency  served  to  keep  the  bank 
lady  in  my  memory ; and  while  still  determined 
to  hold  fast  by  honor  and  conscience,  and  fulfill 
my  engagement  to  the  poor  girl  whose  affections 
I had  won,  the  conviction  grew  upon  me  hour 
by  hour  that  in  her  society  I never  could  be 
happy,  and  that  Madame’s  solution  was  the  only 
one  for  my  domestic  difficulty.  My  intended 
wife  could  not  be  my  companion.  There  was 
no  mode  of  life  for  me  but  the  classical  one  she 
had  recommended,  in  which  “the  house  and 
family  were  necessary  but  private  institutions — 
not  to  go  abroad  with  the  man  to  festive  board 
or  philosophic  school.”  But  I was  not  a clas- 
sical character ; my  nature  was  domestic  as  that 
of  the  most  Anglo-Saxon  man.  If  solitary  at 
home,  I must  be  solitary  for  life.  There  was 
no  going  abroad  for  companionship.  Where  I 
found  it,  there  my  heart  would  make  its  home; 
and  I knew  that  could  only  be  in  Broad  Street 
or  the  villa. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

• MISS  livy’s  time  is  come. 

I worked  hard  against  wind  and  tide,  and 
there  were  household  circumstances  that  helped 
to  keep  me  in  that  sober  course.  Rhoda  had 
remarked  the  change  in  my  poor  old  grand-aunt, 
and  I soon  began  to  see  that  her  fears  were  well 
founded.  Miss  Livy  declined,  day  by  day,  from 
the  evening  of  the  thunder-storm  ; it  was  soon 
plain  that  her  prediction  of  never  walking  with 
us  again  would  be  fulfilled.  She  gradually  rose 
later  and  later — became  more  and  more  quiet, 
and  even  gentle — gave  her  mind  up  to  religious 
duties— at  length  did  not  leave  her  bed  at  all,  and 
kept  her  rosary  constantly  in  her  fingers.  The 


80 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


doctor,  for  whom  we  sent,  said  it  was  a decay 
of  nature,  and  then  inquired  if  she  had  met 
with  any  accident,  or  got  any  sudden  shake. 
“No,  doctor,”  said  Miss  Livy,  “ nothing  of  the 
kind  worth  mentioning ; but  I am  near  four- 
score, and  my  time  is  come.” 

On  that  idea  her  mind  settled  with  a compo- 
sure which  was  strange  to  see  in  one  whose  tem- 
pers had  been  so  disquieting  all  her  long  life. 
The  change  which  Rhoda  described  so  graphic- 
ally had  come  over  her ; perhaps  it  was  a family 
characteristic — such  things  appear  in  death  as 
well  as  in  life.  I had  reproached  myself  when 
she  leant  on  my  arm  that  evening  for  bearing 
badly  with  Miss  Livy’s  humors,  and  thinking  the 
old  woman  so  much  of  a trial  at  times.  I did 
my  best  to  make  up  for  it  in  those  last  days  of 
hers,  and  she  seemed  to  take  more  kindly  to  me 
than  she  had  ever  done.  ‘ * Is  Lucien  come 

home  yet?”  was  her  often  repeated  question  as 
the  evenings  drew  on ; and  her  old  wrinkled 
face  would  brighten  up  when  I came  into  the 
room.  Rhoda  had  been  always  affectionate  to 
her,  and  Miss  Livy  seemed  to  understand  that 
better  than  formerly ; but  to  the  youngest  child 
of  the  family,  whom  she  had  nursed  and  petted 
in  his  infancy — whom  she  had  thrust  away  from 
home  and  friends  in  the  fierceness  that  came  on 
her  in  that  time  of  ruin — the  old  woman’s  heart 
seemed  to  turn  with  a loving  confidence,  which 
I knew  myself  not  to  deserve.  “Your  sweet- 
heart has  come  from  America,  Lucien,”  she  said, 
with  a cheerful  look,  one  day;  “you'll  bring 
her  to  see  me,  won’t  you,  before  I go?  I should 
like  to  give  you  both  my  blessing ; and  you’ll  i 
do  as  becomes  a decent  family,  Lucien  — put 
some  prape  on  your  hat  for  me,  and  don’t  just 
get  married  till  it’s  worn  a decent  time.”  The 
respectability  of  her  family  was  poor  Miss  Livy’s 
first,  and  continued  to  be  her  last  care,  sorely  as 
she  had  been  disappointed  in  it.  I promised 
that  every  thing  should  be  properly  managed, 
and  no  wedding  take  place  till  the  time  of  mourn- 
ing had  expired.  “But  there  is  no  use  in  talk- 
ing of  that,”  I added,  as  a matter  of  course  ; 
“you’ll  get  better,  aunt,  and  clance  at  our  wed- 
ding, I’ll  warrant.” 

“No,  dear,  I am  going ; but  you’ll  bring  her 
to  see  me  ?”  said  Miss  Livy. 

I brought  her  accordingly:  there  was  a good 
deal  of  trouble  in  keeping  Sally  at  home ; her 
company  would  have  been  no  acquisition  to, the 
sick-room,  and  I did  not  wish  the  old  woman  to 
be  disturbed  with  some  of  her  outbursts.  She 
was  staved  off,  and  Rosanna  brought.  How 
quietly  and  kindly  Miss  Livy  received  the  girl 
concerning  whom  she  had  scolded  and  grumbled 
from  Antrim  to  London ! My  intended  bride 
behaved  with  great  propriety ; indeed,  she  was 
more  to  my  mind  by  my  aunt’s  bedside  than 
ever  I had  found  her  since  we  parted  in  Bal- 
timore. Rosanna  was  naturally  gentle ; the 
strange  family,  and  the  sight  of  sickness,  sub- 
dued her  to  the  melancholy  point.  Rhoda  also 
took  to  her  kindly ; I felt  that  they  would  be 
good  friends  — there  would  be  no  necessity  to 


part  with  a sister  my  heart  was  growing  to ; the 
one  of  my  household  with  whom  there  was  dan- 
ger of  disputation  was  rapidly  going  down  to  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow.  The  fact  brought  us  all 
nearer  to  that  common  lot ; and  in  the  sobering 
light  which  it  cast  on  life,  my  duty  was  still 
clearer,  and  seemed  more  easy  to  do. 

Rosanna  came  to  see  my  aunt  almost  every 
evening,  in  the  same  quiet,  kindly  fashion. 
They  talked  little ; Miss  I^ivy  did  not  speak 
much  to  any  body  now,  and  never  made  a remark 
on  h^r  intended  niece  except  when  she  was  gone 
after  their  first  introduction,  and  I said,  “ How 
do  you  like  her,  aunt?”  she  answered,  “Well 
enough,  Lucien.  I did  not  think  her  the  girl 
you  would  have  fancied;  but  I hope  you  like 
her,  and  I hope  she  likes  you.” 

Rosanna  came  in  the  evenings,  and  Miss 
Forbes  came  in  the  daytime,  when  I was  in  the 
bank.  Rhoda  told  me  she  sat  by  my  aunt  for 
hours  reading  the  Bible  to  her,  “ and  talking  so 
uncommon  good,  you  wouldn’t  believe  it,  Lucien; 
Father  Connolly  himself  couldn’t  say  better — 
and  not  a bit  bigoted.  Do  you  know,  she  allows 
that  Catholics  will  go  to  heaven  as  well  as 
Protestants  ? Ido  like  that  young  lady.” 
Helen  never  staid  for  my  home-coming,  but 
her  father  was  often  there  before  me.  He  had 
got  home  from  his  important  business  in  Edin- 
burg. I had  excused  myself  from  meeting 
Charles  Barry  at  his  house,  being  no  company 
for  the  gay  young  naval  officer  who  was  now 
enjoying  himself  in  London.  I was  looked  for 
at  home  by  eyes  that  were  soon  to  close  forever ; 
and  Mr.  Forbes  was  often  tjiere,  talking  with 
my  aunt,  reading  to  her  even  in  her  Catholic 
books,  and  seeming  far  more  grieved  and  con- 
cerned than  one  could  have  expected,  for  Miss 
Livy  had  come  to  the  natural  time  of  departure. 
Slowly  and  gradually  she  drew  on  to  the  hour 
appointed.  More  than  a month  had  worn  away 
with  that  strange,  sad  visitant,  sickness,  in  our 
home.  It  was  the  first  of  it  that  I had  seen, 

J and  in  the  strength  of  life  and  health  that  first 
; meeting  with  decay  and  death  is  apt  to  make  a 
strong  impression.  It  was  not  so  with  Rhoda ; 
she  had  seen  her  young  sisters  and  her  mother 
die,  and  though  more  grieved  to  part  with  her 
old  aunt  than  I could  have  once  thought  possi- 
ble, she  fell  into  the  new  state  of  things  like  one 
accustomed  to  it ; sat  up  by  night,  and  slept  by 
day ; noted  every  change,  and  told  me  what  to 
expect.  Miss  Livy  was  wearing  near  her  last ; 
slept  much  and  spoke  little.  Father  Connolly, 
who  had  visited  her  most  assiduously,  thought 
it  right  to  give  her  the  last  consolations  of  the 
Church.  “I  have  to  see  a poor  man  in  your 
/leighborhood,”  he  said,  when  taking  leave  of 
me  one  evening — “I  will  be  late  going  home, 
and  as  you  sit  up  I will  call  between  twelve  and 
one,  see  how  Miss  Livy  is,  and  if  it  seem  neces- 
sary then,  I’ll  give  her  extreme  unction,  with 
God’s  help,  for,  you  see,  I’ll  have  the  holy  chrism 
with  me.” 

After  the  priest  had  made  that  arrangement, 
it  was  agreed  between  Rhoda  and  I that  she 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


81 


should  sleep  till  Father  Connolly  knocked,  while 
I sat  watching  by  my  aunt’s  bedside,  for  Mrs. 
Muncy,  who  did  duty  for  us  sometimes,  was 
nursing  a sick  child  of  her  own  that  night. 
Poor  Rhoda  was  looking  pale  and  thin  with  sit- 
ting in  the  sick-room,  and  Hannah  Clark,  from 
her  unpreventible  noise,  was  worse  than  useless. 
They  were  both  in  bed,  and  the  whole  neighbor- 
hood was  hushed,  for  it  was  near  midnight.  I 
had  sat  reading  the  “ Imitation  of  Christ”  to 
Miss  Livy  till*  she  slept,  and  then  sat  leaning 
my  head  on  my  hand,  feeling  that  life  was  but  a 
vapor  and  death  a certainty,  and  wishing  that 
my  mind  could  cast  anchor  in  some  faith  against 
that  trial.  I thought  she  was  still  asleep  as  the 
clock  struck  twelve,  when,  lifting  up  my  eyes, 
I saw  the  old  woman’s  face  turned  up,  and 
earnestly  looking  at  me.  “Lucien,”  she  said, 
and  her  voice  sounded  as  firm  and  full  as  ever 
I heard  it  long  ago  in  my  childhood — “Lucien, 
dear,  I don’t  know  what  you  are  thinking  of. 
I hope  it’s  something  good.  We  have  little 
enough  time  to  think  of  that,  and  little  inclina- 
tion at  the  best.  Maybe  I ought  not  to  be 
thinking  of  what  is  in  my  mind  just  now;  but 
I have  been  wanting  to  ask  you  for  the  last 
month,  and  somehow  could  not  get  it  out.” 
“What  is  it,  aunt?”  said  I,  coming  close  to 
her  bed. 

“ Hannah  and  Rhoda  are  asleep,  I suppose?” 
said  Miss  Livy,  looking  round  the  room. 

“ Yes,  aunt,  asleep  for  many  an  hour.  What 
is  it  you  want  to  ask  me?” 

“ Well,  Lucien,  you’ll  answer  upon  your  con- 
science, and  as  you  would  like  to  have  done 
when  you  come  to  be  in  my  place.  Have  you 
any  notion — any  suspicion  of  what  became  of 
your  brother  Raymond,  if  he  met  with  foul  play, 
or  who  is  guilty  of  the  matter  ?” 

Her  voice  had  sunk  to  a deep,  clear  whisper, 
and  her  eyes  were  fixed  earnestly,  but  calmly  on 
my  face  as  I answered,  “ Upon  my  conscience, 
aunt,  and  should  these  be  my  last  words,  I 
solemnly  declare  to  you  that  I neither  know 
what  became  of  my  brother,  nor  have  I the 
slightest  suspicion  of  any  person  being  concerned 
in  his  disappearance.” 

i‘I  believe  you,  Lucien,  as  truly  as  you  say 
it.  You  never  were  given  to  falsehood,  and 
you  would  not  tell  it  now  to  a dying  woman. 
Whatever  you  said,  dear,  would  go  out  of  the 
world  with  me  ; it  was  only  to  satisfy  my  own 
nind  I asked  you,  for  oh,  Lucien,  I sinned 
grievously  against  that  boy.” 

“You,  aunt?” 

“Yes,  I did,  in  believing  that  he  was  guilty 
of  running  away  with  his  father’s  money,  and 
bring  ingus  all  to  wreck  and  ruin.  That  belief 
turned  my  heart  and  brain  almost ; it  made  me 
send  you  off  to  that  cold,  proud-hearted  O’Neil 
when  you  were  but  an  infant ; it  made  me  a 
hard,  stiff  old  sinner  all  my  days,  blaming  him 
and  blaming  every  body  for  his  sake,  and  he 
innocent  all  the  while.” 

“You  are  blaming  yourself  overmuch  now, 
aunt,”  and  I took  her  thin,  shriveled  hand  in 
F 


mine;  “but,  if  he  were  innocent,  what  do  you 
think  became  of  Raymond  ?” 

“ What  his  mother  said,  Lucien,  what  his 
mother  said  the  night  she  lost  her  reason  after 
seeing  him  in  her  room,  dead  and  murdered  in 
an  old  house  in  Dublin  for  the  money  he  had  in 
his  cai’e.” 

“Have  you  any  knowledge,  any  certainty  of 
that,  aunt?” 

“I  have  a certainty  in  my  own  mind  as  sure 
as  that  you  are  sitting  there — oh,  but  it  was  late 
and  sudden  in  the  coming!  He  did  not  appear 
to  me,  thank  God ! my  brain  would  not  have 
stood  that ; but  a persuasion,  an  assurance  of  it 
all  came  on  me  with  and  like  the  lightning  that 
evening  the  lawyer’s  letter  came,  Lucien.  I 
know  it,  and  I wanted  to  tell  you  before  I went, 
that  you  might  not  sin  as  I did  in  blaming  the 
boy.” 

I felt  my  own  breath  coming  quickly  as  I said 
“ Aunt,  will  you  tell  me  one  thing  more  ? Have 
you  any  notion  by  whom  the  deed  was  done  ?” 

She  had  hitherto  spoken  so  calmly  and  col- 
lectedly, with  such  a look  of  composed  intelli- 
gence as  gave  her  words,  strange  though  they 
were,  the  weight  and  power  of  a dying  testimony, 
and  superstitious  as  it  may  seem,  I could  not 
help  believing  in  the  truth  of  the  mysterious  in- 
timation she  asserted.  But  at  my  last  question 
her  look  suddenly  changed  to  one  of  nameless 
terror. 

“Don’t  ask  me  that,  Lucien;  I can  not  — 
I dare  not  tell  you ; it  is  so  hard  to  believe,  so 
hard  to  think  of,  and  it  may  be  wrong,  after  all. 
What  right  have  I,  a sinner  as  I am,  that  never 
led  a godly  life,  but  was  all  my  days  taken  up 
with  worldly  things — first  managing  the  house 
in  Armagh,  and  then  fretting  over  the  fall  of  it 
— what  right  have  I to  expect  that  God  would 
send  me  a special  revelation,  and  nothing  else 
could  justify  one  in  mentioning  people  with  a 
fair  name  and  a high  place?  I won’t — I can’t 
take  it  on  my  conscience,  Lucien ; don’t  ask  me ; 
let  your  poor  old  aunt  go  out  of  the  world  in 
peace;  I have  enough  to  answer  for  besides  — 
oh ! but  the  fires  of  purgatoi’y  must  be  fierce 
and  terrible ! but  my  trust  is  in  Him  who  died 
for  us,  Lucien  ; put  your  trust  in  Him  above  all 
saints  and  angels,  but  don’t  forsake  the  holy 
Roman  Church.” 

I was  going  to  promise  I never  should — I 
would  have  promised  any  thing  to  her  then,  and 
dared  not  repeat  my  question,  though  I would 
have  given  the  world  to  know  her  thought  upon 
it — when,  after  a minute’s  silence,  and  covering 
her  face  with  her  hands,  she  said,  “Lucien,  did 
my  old  ears  serve  me  right  that  evening?  did 
,Mr.  Forbes  say  that  money  hadn’t  come  from 
him?” 

“He  did,  aunt;  have  you  still  the  same 
opinion  about  that  money?” 

“I  have;  God  help  me  if  I’m  wrong!”  she 
said,  with  a sort  of  groan,  and  covering  her  face 
still  closer;  but  that  moment  Father  Connolly’s 
knock  sounded  at  the  outside  door. 

I admitted  the  priest  from  a warm  wet  night, 


82 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


such  as  come  often  at  the  close  of  the  London 
summer,  and  told  him  what  I really  thought, 
that  Miss  Livy  had  been  speaking  so  well  and 
strongly,  it  was  not  likely  her  end  could  be 
near. 

“Ah!  Mr.  La  Touche,”  said  the  devoted, 
laborious  priest,  laying  down  the  little  box  which 
contained  the  canonicals  and  requisites  for  his 
office,  always  carried  with  him  to  the  bedsides 
of  the  sick  and  dying,  and  taking  off  his  thin 
great-coat  which  the  rain  had  drenched  through, 
“ there  is  nothing  so  uncertain  as  mortal  strength 
at  any  time,  and  these  brightenings  up  are  apt 
to  come  just  before  the  summons.  I have  often  j 
remarked  the  like ; but  I hope  you  are  right  this 
time.” 

Father  Connolly  was  better  acquainted  with 
death  than  I could  have  been.  When  we  en- 
tered her  room,  it  was  manifest  that  a change 
had  passed  over  Miss  Livy  ; her  face  had  grown 
sharper  and  more  gravelike  in  those  few  min- 
utes, and  her  breathing  harder;  but  she  opened 
her  eyes  with  a look  of  welcome  to  the  priest, 
and  said,  in  a faint  whisper,  “ Father,  I am  glad 
you  have  come,  for  my  time  is  growing  short.” 

I left  the  room  to  awake  Rhoda,  and  leave 
the  dying  alone  with  him  who  was  to  hear  her 
last  confession.  What  she  could  not  take  on 
her  conscience  to  let  me  hear  in  that  last  hour, 
was  no  doubt  uttered  to  his  ears,  and  kept  safe 
under  the  seal  of  his  holy  office.  In  the  mean 
time  I woke  my  sister ; told  her  how  near  our 
loss  was  coming,  and  we  wept  together  for  the 
poor  old  woman,  of  whose  grumblings  we  had 
been  so  weary,  till  Father  Connolly  came  and 
bid  us  attend  on  the  last  sacrament  of  the 
Church. 

In  that  hour  of  sorrow  and  first  sight  of  death, 
showing  life  with  all  its  aims  and  attachments 
to  be  but  the  vanity  of  vanities,  I felt  my  heart 
going  back,  in  spite  of  reason  and  inquiry,  to 
the  faith  of  my  fathers  and  my  childhood. 
When  that  last  solemn  rite  was  done  — the 
anointing  for  the  dead,  practiced  by  the  wor- 
shipers in  the  catacombs  before  the  Roman 
world  became  Christendom,  and  derived,  like 
most  Christian  creeds  and  customs,  from  the 
far-off,  ancient  East,  still  the  last  consolation 
which  the  oldest  and  most  fallen  Church  can 
offer  to  those  that  go  down  to  dust  and  darkness 
— when  it  was  done,  and  Miss  Livy,  after  a 
pious  ejaculation,  and  a long,  I thought,  inquir- 
ing look  at  the  priest,  took  one  of  Rhoda’s  hands 
and  one  of  mine,  clasped  them  together  with 
her  own,  said,  “The  Lord  let  nothing  part  you,” 
closed  her  eyes,  and  seemed  to  fall  asleep. 

Father  Connolly  spoke  some  words  of  com- 
fort, offered  up  the  last  prayer  for  the  dying ; , 
then  there  was  a knock  at  our  door,  and  he  ad- 
mitted Watt  Wilson,  as  the  day  was  breaking 
dimly  through  the  rain  — “I  am  a Protestant, 
sir,  but  you’ll  let  me  stay  to  see  the  last  of  her,  ” 
said  the  honest  clerk,  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 
The  priest  said  something,  I know  it  was  kind 
and  charitable,  in  reply ; and  my  father’s  faith- 
ful man,  who  had  kept  his  loyalty  to  the  family 


through  good  and  evil  fortunes  for  nearly  forty 
years,  knelt  with  us  at  the  bedside,  and  prayed 
as  devoutly  as  we  did,  though  in  his  Protestant 
fashion. 

“Does  she  know  me?”  he  whispered  to  riie 
when  we  rose. 

“ She  knows  nobody  now  in  this  world : her 
soul  has  passed  out  of  its  troubles ; blessed  be 
God,  she  has  made  a good  and  a pious  ending!” 
said  Father  Connolly. 

I bent  over  the  bed,  but  not  to  close  her  eyes ; 
they  had  closed  forever  in  that  peaceful  slumber : 
without  a groan,  without  a struggle,  the  weary 
j soul  had  departed  from  us,  and  Rhoda  and  I 
were  in  the  world  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

A GENEROUS  OFFER. 

So  Death  came  into  Number  9 as  he  comes 
to  all  earthly  houses,  and  made  visible  to  me 
the  communication  which  exists  between  every 
one  of  them  and  the  grave.  There  went  out  of 
it  a modest  funeral,  at  which  our  neighbors 
gazed ; they  had  little  to  see  in  Petersburg 
Place,  and  with  the  help  of  Father  Connolly, 
Watt  Wilson,  and  Mr.  Forbes,  who  would  be 
one  of  the  mourners,  we  laid  Miss  Livy  down 
far  from  all  her  kindred,  under  the  turf  of  the 
Hammersmith  church-yard,  which  happened  to 
be  our  nearest  cemetery. 

The  gray  head  was  gone  from  among  us,  and 
the  small  household  had  become  smaller;  I 
thought  of  Rhoda  being  lonely  now,  and  hast- 
ened home  in  the  evenings.  Watt  Wilson  con- 
sidered her  also,  called  himself,  and  brought 
the  Masons,  and  there  was  never  a day  that 
Helen  Forbes  did  not  drop  in,  talking  so  good 
and  so  sensibly,  as  Rhoda  said,  but  never  by  any 
chance  staying  till  I came  home.  I fetched 
Rosanna  too,  in  hopes  that  my  sister  and  she 
would  become  intimate ; the  attic  in  Mayfair 
was  not  an  eligible  place  for  visiting,  and  since 
her  exclusion  from  the  sick-room,  Sally  had  got 
a notion  that  we  were  proud,  and  laid  that  sin 
particularly  to  the  door  of  my  innocent  sistgr. 
The  farther  she  kept  from  Petersburg  Place,  it 
seemed  to  me  the  better.  Rosanna  and  Rhoda 
got  on  well,  one  could  say  no  more  and  no  less 
of  their  acquaintance.  I took  an  early  oppor- 
tunity to  do  my  duty  by  telling  the  former,  in . 
one  of  our  quiet  walks,  that  every  obstacle  be- 
tween us  now  was  removed ; I did  not  explain 
how ; the  Joyces  were  not  likely  to  learn  par- 
ticulars, for  Esthers  did  not  know  them  ; but 
, Rosanna  looked  delighted,  and  when  I set  forth 
the  propriety  of  waiting  for  a decent  time  after 
my  aunt’s  death,  the  gentle  girl  acquiesced,  as 
she  had  done  in  every  arrangement  of  mine, 
and  said,  while  clinging  to  my  arm,  “Lucien, 

I would  wait  for  you  fourteen  years,  as  Abra- 
ham did  for  Rachel.” 

Rosanna’s  knowledge  of  history,  sacred  or 
profane,  was  not  very  accurate,  but  she  would 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


83 


wait  for  me,  and  what  sort  of  waiting  for  her 
had  I been  doing  ? Now,  at  least,  I was  keep- 
ing well  with  conscience,  trying  to  forget — I 
mean,  not  to  think  of  Madame  Palivez,  and 
something  like  success  seemed  to  crown  my 


puddings,  and  modes  of  hashing  mutton,  for  the 
purpose  of  leading  Rosanna  into  the  domestic 
school.  I preached  to  her  on  those  and  kin- 
dred topics  to  my  own  astonishment,  if  not  to 
her  edification.  Rosanna  listened  as  usual, 


“ Father,  I am  glad  you  have  come,  for  my  time  is  growing  short." 


effort’s.  I came  in  and  out  of  the  bank,  and  J wondering  at  my  wisdom,  and  promised  every 
did  not  cast  a look  at  the  private  door.  I went  I thing ; she  would  learn  from  the  cookery  books, 
to  Bolton  Row  without  stopping  in  Curzon  make  such  nice  dinners,  and  keep  the  house 
Street ; the  brass  key  was  never  taken  out  of  so  neat ; it  was  no  use  trying  at  home ; Sally 
my  desk ; the  path  up  by  the  stream  was  turn-  did  not  like  any  thing  of  the  kind,  and  always 
ed  away  from.  I got  up  an  interest  in  cheap  got  angry  when  she  went  to  put  things  straight : 


8 i 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


“ But  your  sister  is  such  a dear,  good  girl,  Lu- 
cien,  I am  sure  she  would  not  be  angry  at  any 
thing  I should  do,  and  won’t  she  teach  me 
housekeeping  for  your  sake  ?”  said  Rosanna,  in 
her  simplicity.  I did  not  think  it  necessary  to 
enlighten  ’'my  intended  on  Rhoda’s  domestic 
abilities.  They  got  on  well,  as  I have  said,, 
but  Rosanna  and  Rhoda  were  not  becoming 
intimate  ; there  was  much'civility,  but  no  con- 
fidence between  them,  and  I could  not  help  ob- 
serving that  the  said  deficiency  was  on  my  sis- 
ter’s side.  She  and  I had  drawn  closer  together 
as  our  family  circle  was  narrowed,  but  I had 
secrets  to  keep  from  Rhoda,  and  she  had  been 
long  accustomed  to  keep  most  of  her  mind  to 
herself.  I remember  telling  her  what  Rosanna 
had  promised  and  said,  by  way  of  making  paths 
smooth,  and  removing  any  private  prejudice,  if 
the  like  existed.  “ She  had  need  to  get  a bet- 
ter teachpr,  Lucien,  you  know  that,”  and  my 
honest,  good-humored  sister  smiled. 

“Yes,  but  you  could  teach  her  many  things, 
Rhoda;  she  is  very  simple.” 

“Maybe  she  is,”  said  Rhoda,  darning  away 
at  her  stocking  ; “in  course  you  know  best,  but 
I never  could  settle  it  in  my  own  mind  whether 
it  was  simplicity,  or  being  oncommon  deep,  that 
was  the  matter  with  her.” 

I thought  of  sister-in-law,  and  sighed  ; good- 
tempered,  kindly  Rhoda  was  not  above  the  ordi- 
nary ways  of  women  as  regarded  her  brother’s 
bride ; and  often,  when  listening  to  poor  Rosan- 
na’s innocent  prattle,  I smiled  to  myself  at  the 
insinuation  of  her  uncommon  depth.  Things 
were  progressing  properly,  however,  and  I was 
coming  through  Threadneedle  Street  on  my  way 
home  one  evening,  when  at  Mr.  Forbes’s  back 
door  I saw  an  uncommon  sight,  consisting  of 
his  daughter  Helen  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a 
gentleman  and  saying,  “Oh,  this  is  Mr.  La 
Touche  ; I will  just  introduce  you  at  once.” 

The  gentleman  and  I looked  at  each  other 
as  she  continued,  after  bidding  me  good-even- 
ing, “ My  cousin,  Charles  Barry” — for  we  had 
met  and  spoken  before,  without  an  introduc- 
tion. I recognized  the  man  who  had  stood  by 
my  side  in  Curzon  Street  on  the  night  of  Ma- 
dame Palivez’s  ball,  and  he  evidently  remem- 
bered me ; there  was  surprise  and  recognition 
in  his  look,  and  a muttered  “By  Jove!”  reach- 
ed my  ear,  as,  being  the  first  to  recover  my 
presence  of  my  mind,  I stepped  up  with  extend- 
ed hand,  and  said,  “I  am  happy  to  meet  Mr. 
Barry,  though  it  is  not  for  the  first  time.” 

“No,”  said  he,  recovering  himself,  and  shak- 
ing hands  with  me  heartily,  “I  am  happy  to 
meet  you  too,  sir,  and  we  must  be  obliged  to 
Miss  Forbes  for  letting  us  know  each  other’s 
name.” 

Mr.  Forbes  now  joined  us.  I explained  to 
him,  while  Barry  made  clear  to  Helen,  the  fact 
of  our  meeting  in  Curzon  Street.  Both  father 
and  daughter  thought  it  a singular  coincidence 
that  we  should  have  heard  so  much  of  each 
other,  and  got  acquainted  without  an  introduc- 
tion. We  all  walked  part  of  the  way  home  to- 


gether, Mr.  Forbes  and  myself  in  company, 
Helen  still  in  possession  of  her  cousin’s  arm, 
but  keeping  so  close  to  us  that  I could  perceive 
the  young  officer  was  rather  under  tutelage  than 
on  the  ordinary  footing  of  gentlemen  cousins. 
He  looked  as  much  on  his  guard  in  her  company 
as  I had  seen  him  off  of  it  in  the  crowded  street: 
the  ease,  the  frankness,  even  the  courage  were 
gone  from  him;  but  one  somehow  knew  their 
absence  to  be  temporary ; they  were  native  to 
Charles  Barry,  and  would  return  the  moment 
he  got  clear  off.  In  the  mean  time,  his  walk 
and  conversation  bore  an  indescribable  resem- 
blance to  what  those  of  the  prodigal  might  have 
been  if  not  returning  of  his  own  accord,  but 
caught  and  brought  back  from  the  husks,  and, 
as  an  inevitable  consequence,  Miss  Forbes’s 
cousin  seemed  very  much  bored  and  particu- 
larly stupid.  I suppose  she  was  talking  seri- 
ously and  sensibly  to  him ; she  certainly  did 
the  most  of  the  business,  and  I heard  him  oc- 
casionally respond,  “Oh  yes,  certainly,  very 
true,  and  no  doubt.” 

At  parting,  they  pressed  me  to  come  on  Satur- 
day evening — Charles  and  I should  meet  then 
and  get  better  acquainted.  “And  won’t  you 
bring  your  sister  ?”  said  Helen.  “ I have  been 
coaxing  her  to  come  all  this  week  ; she  will  be 
so  lonely  when  you  are  out ; you  can’t  think 
how  handsome  Miss  La  Touche  is,”  she  added, 
by  way  of  edifying  Charles  Barry. 

“ Indeed !”  said  he,  getting  off  the  prodigal 
for  an  instant ; but  it  returned  upon  him  with 
double  weight  as,  with  a promise  to  bring 
Rhoda,  I went  my  way  and  they  turned  home- 
ward. 

“ No,  Lucien,”  said  my  sister,  when  I men- 
tioned the  invitation,  “Miss  Forbes  is  very 
good,  and  so  is  her  father ; there  is  no  people 
in  the  world  I have  a greater  respect  for,  as  I 
ought,  you  know,  but  they  are  too  grand  for  me 
to  associate  with.  I like  them  coming  here 
very  well,  but  in  their  fine  house  and  grand 
company  I would  have  no  peace,  and  neither 
would  you,  Lucien,  for  fear  of  something  ongen- 
teel  coming  out ; and  if  you  would  just  make  an 
excuse  for  me,  I would  far  rather  stay  at  home 
with  Hannah  Clark.” 

I sincerely  acquiesced  in  Rhoda’s  view  of  the 
case ; it  was  a proof  of  the  girl’s  sound  sense 
and  independence  of  mind,  and  without  fib  or 
varnish  I explained  it  quietly  to  Helen  on  the 
following  Saturday  evening,  when  we  happened 
to  stand  together  at  the  window  looking  for  her 
father’s  home-coming,  while  Charles  entertain- 
ed himself  with  a volume  of  prints  at  the  far- 
ther end  of  the  room. 

Had  my  designs  been  laid  against  Miss  Forbes’s 
heart  and  hand,  there  would  have  been  rest  in 
my  mind  regarding  her  cousin,  the  young  naval 
officer.  She  discoursed  to  him  very  much  in 
the  manner  of  an  elder  sister  or  maiden  aunt. 
He  listened  more  quietly  than  the  greater  part 
of  younger  brothers  and  nephews,  but  the  one 
was  in  the  discreet  vein,  and  the  other  in  the 
cowed  department,  whenever  they  happened  to 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


85 


be  left  together.  Helen  did  not  sing  Scotch 
songs  to  him,  did  not  gossip  about  Madame 
Palivez,  or  tell  her  experiences  in  the  gardening 
line,  as  she  did  to  me  ; and  it  always  happened, 
when  we  met  there  on  Saturday  evenings,  which 
was  now  a regular  thing,  that  the  banker  took 
Charles  in  hand,  and  Helen  and  I kept  com- 
pany. I think  the  young  man  was  glad  of  my 
presence,  nevertheless ; it  helped  him  through 
the  duty  or  penance  he  was  obliged  to  do  at 
Notting  Hill  House  ; his  frank  eyes  told  me  so 
without  intending  it ; we  became  friendly  almost 
from  first  acquaintance,  and  he  used  to  escort 
me  part  of  the  way  home,  when  the  night  was 
fine.  I suppose  he  wanted  fresh  air  after  the 
restraint  of  the  evening ; and  what  a released 
man  Charles  Barry  looked  when  fairly  out  of 
the  grounds  ! “He  is  an  excellent  man  and  a 
great  Christian  that  uncle  of  mine,”  was  his  re- 
mark, when  lighting  up  his  cigar,  on  the  second 
walk  we  took  together.  “ He  was  kind  to  me 
when  I was  a youngster ; for  that  matter,  he  is 
kind  yet ; he  would  have  brought  me  up  to  the 
banking  business,  made  me  his  partner,  and  per- 
haps his  heir.  I might  have  been  one  of  the 
city  nobs,  you  see  ; but  my  father  was  a soldier 
and  a gentleman  ; I couldn’t  stand  the  eternal 
moping  and  church-going,  and  ran  away  to  sea. 
Many  an  uncle  would  have  given  me  up  after 
that,  but  he  didn’t.  One  should  not  forget 
that,  and  I don’t,  Mr.  La  Touche  ; I stay  with 
him  always  when  I am  in  town,  and  play  sober- 
sides to  suit  his  taste ; nothing  like  doing  as 
Home  does  ; one  learns  that  on  board  ship  ; it’s 
one’s  duty,  and  the  proper  thing,  you  know,  but 
confoundedly  dull  work.” 

“What!  and  your  cousin,  Miss  Forbes, 
there?”  said  I,  the  temptation  to  quiz  being 
irresistible. 

“Helen  is  just  as  bad — good,  I mean — as  my 
uncle ; I never  met  a girl  so  hard  to  get  on  with. 
By  the  way,  Mr.  La  Touche,  you  and  my  cousin 
get  on  famously,  because  you  are  a proper  sensi- 
ble young  man,  I suppose,  which  I never  was.” 

“Do  you  mean  that  I am  respectably  stupid, 
Mr.  Barry  ?” 

“No,  not  just  that ; but  you  have  got  a sober 
way,  which  goes  down  with  my  uncle  and  cousin ; 
I don’t  say  I would  trust  you  far  round  a corner 
myself.” 

“ Much  obliged  to  you  for  your  flattering 
opinion.” 

“Never  mind,  man;  there  are  few  saints 
among  us,  as  our  chaplain  says  ; but  Helen  will 
be  heiress  of  all  my  uncle’s  gatherings ; they 
must  be  no  joke,  for  he  is  always  making  money, 
and  spending  very  little.  If  she  were  not  my 
own  cousin-german,  which  is  too  near  a rela- 
tionship to  marry  on — that’s  my  uncle’s  opinion 
as  well  as  mine — I should  try  to  look  sober  and 
sensible,  go  to  the  Scotch  church,  and  get  her 
to  expound  the  Westminster  confession — that’s 
what  they  hold  by,  you  understand ; my  uncle 
wanted  to  convert  me,  but  a Presbyterian  meet- 
ing-house is  no  place  for  a gentleman’s  son. 
Well,  as  I was  saying,  it’s  worth  a man’s  while 


to  look  after  my  cousin  Helen,  though  she  is- 
not  over  and  above  handsome,  and  does  preach 
confoundedly,”  and  Barry  gave  a kind  of  wince 
indicating  the  displeasures  of  memory  ; “ she  is 
a good  soul,  and  would  never  scold  much,  nor 
take  state  upon  her.  In  short,  Mr.  La  Touche, 
I was  thinking  it  wouldn’t  be  a bad  speculation 
for  you;  have  I hit  the  right  nail  on  the 
head  ?” 

“ Indeed  you  have  not,  Mr.  Barry  ; I am  not 
so  absurdly  self-conceited  as  to  imagine  that 
Miss  Forbes,  with  her  position  and  prospects, 
would  think  of  an  under  clerk,  with  no  connec- 
tions, no  advantages  to  recommend  him.” 

“Well,  I don’t  know,”  interrupted  Barry; 
“you  are  of  a good  family,  that  counts  for 
something ; you  understand  bank  business,  that 
would  qualify  you  for  stepping  into  my  uncle’s 
shoes,  as  somebody  must  when  he  steps  out  of 
them  ; and,  between  ourselves,  I don’t  think  the 
man  will  have  long  life ; something  has  broken 
him  down  early ; I don’t  know  if  religion  does 
the  like,  or  if  the  loss  of  his  wife  and  sons  sits 
so  sore  upon  him.  At  any  rate  I don’t  think 
he  will  be  a long  liver.  I know  he  has  a good 
opinion  of  you,  and  I think  so  has  Helen — she’s 
uncommon  good,  you  know,  and  wouldn’t  show 
it  like  other  girls.  In  short,  you  have  a chance, 
Mr.  La  Touche,  a very  good  chance,  and,  for  my 
own  part,  I don’t  know  any  body  I should  rather 
have  for  a cousin-in-law,  and  I was  just  think- 
ing, if  you  wanted  a word  said  to  her  or  my 
uncle — it  is  not  always  easy  for  a man  to  push 
his  own  merits  forward,  and  tell  people  all  that 
might  be  said  in  his  favor — in  short,  Mr.  La 
Touche,  if  you  want  any  thing  of  that  kind 
done,  Charles  Barry  is  at  your  service.” 

“It  is  a very  generous  offer,  sir,”  said  I, 
“beyond  my  merits  and  my  expectations.” 

“ Come  to  the  point,”  said  Barry ; “ you  can 
talk  a good  deal  better  than  I,  but  you  don’t 
bandage  my  eyes.  I see  plain  enough  there 
is  a good  understanding  between  you  and 
Helen.” 

“ There  is  a good  understanding,  Mr.  Barry, 
but  nothing  of  the  kind  you  hint  at.  Mr.  Forbes 
and  his  daughter  have  been  such  friends  to  me 
and  mine  as  few  families  ever  found  in  their 
misfortune ; the  obligations  I owe  them  I can 
never  repay,  but  shall  be  always  proud  to  ac- 
knowledge ; they  are  my  best  friends — I expect, 
I aspire  to  nothing  more.” 

“Oh,  you  don’t,”  said  Barry,  stopping  short 
in  his  walk,  and  surveying  me  through  the 
smoke,  as  if  to  satisfy  himself  how  the  land  lay. 

“I  do  not,  in  all  sincerity , but  I am  equally 
grateful  to  you  for  the  friendly  offer — that  is,  if 
you  did  not  make  it  in  jest.” 

“ Upon  my  soul,  I never  was  more  in  earnest 
in  my  life,  nor  more  astonished  either,”  said 
Barry;  “it  did  seem  to  me  that  you  and  my 
cousin  had  a carrying  on  of  your  own — she 
talked  so  much  about  you ; mind,  I don’t  say 
that  Helen  is  the  girl  to  talk  foolishly  about  any 
man  ; she  don’t  know  much  of  the  world,  but 
she  won’t  be  easily  put  upon,  and  if  I thought 


86 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


any  man  was  trifling  with  her  because  she  is 
pious  and  not  pretty,  I would  do  a cousin’s  duty, 
sir,  and  blow  out  his  brains.  Stop,  now,  Mr. 
La  Touche,  I did  not  mean  you,”  he  continued, 
for  I had  drawn  myself  up,  and  commenced  a 
strong  repudiation  of  all  attempts  or  designs  on 
the  peace  of  Miss  Helen  Forbes;  “I  know  you 
are  not  the  man  to  be  guilty  of  such  dirty 
tricks ; there  is  nobody  I would  prefer  for  a 
cousin-in-law,  I say  again,  and  I did  not  sup- 
pose you  were  bent  on  that  business,  but  I am 
all  out,  it  seems.  Is  there  any  body  else  in  the 
wind  ?” 

What  right  had  Charles  Barry,  the  young 
naval  officer — the  stranger  to  whom  I had  been 
introduced  not  a fortnight  before — to  inquire  so 
deeply  into  my  private  concerns?  The  frank- 
ness, even  the  generosity  of  his  nature,  made  me 
mistake  the  man  ; he  was  so  ready  to  speak  out 
his  observations,  so  willing  to  offer  a helping 
hand  wherever  it  seemed  to  him  wanted;  so 
unacquainted  with  concealment,  or  the  necessity 
for  it,  which  had  cast  its  darkening  influence  on 
my  own  life,  that  he  seemed  to  me  a meddler 
and  a busybody,  qualified  for  getting  up  reports 
and  helping  gossip.  He  should  hear  no  tale  of 
mine — no  news  to  make  a fuss  about  in  Notting 
Hill  House,  and  quiz  myself  on  whenever  we 
came  in  contact.  I would  not  tell  fibs — but 
Charles  Barry  should  go  as  wise  as  he  came ; so 
I responded,  carelessly,  “Earning  his  own  bread, 
and  endeavoring  to  make  his  way  in  the  world, 
is  quite  enough  for  a man  in  my  position  to  have 
in  the  wind.  I am  not  so  fortunate  as  you,  Mr. 
Barry ; I have  no  connections  to  assist  me,  no 
relations  to  care  for  me,  except  my  sister.  She 
and  I are  alone  in  the  world ; and  the  early  and 
strange  misfortunes  of  our  family — of  which  you 
have  probably  heard,  as  Mr.  Forbes  knows  them 
well — should  be  sufficient  to  keep  us  both  sober 
and  steady.” 

“ Oh  yes,  I heard  of  it — not  from  him, 
though , mv  uncle  never  likes  to  speak  on  the 
subject.  I am  sure  he  felt  greatly  for  your 
father ; and  you’ll  excuse  me,  Mr.  La  Touche 
— what  I said  was  altogether  in  friendship.  I 
wanted  to  do  you  a good  turn  if  I could — one 
is  apt  to  get  mistaken  in  these  matters — but 
this  is  your  place ; your  sister  and  you  live  here 
together — what  a good  thing  it  must  be  for  a 
man  to  have  a sister — and  cousin  Helen  tells 
me  she  is  uncommonly  handsome,”  said  Barry, 
with  an  insinuating  look. 

I had  no  fears  of  Rhoda’s  discretion ; but  the 
idle  young  officer,  on  shore  and  off  duty,  should 
not  get  an  excuse  for  spending  his  unemployed 
hours  in  No.  9,  and  amusing  himself  with  my 
sister’s  rusticity  when  I was  at  work  in  Esthers’ 
•office. 

“Miss  Forbes  always  gives  the  best  account 
of  people’s  appearance,  as  well  as  their  doings. 
She  knows  the  ruin  of  our  family  has  left  my 
sister  under  many  disadvantages  of  manner  and 
education , but  her  kindness  and  good  sense  can 
allow  for  all.  I am  sorry  to  have  taken  you  so 
far  on  this  lonely  road,  Mr.  Barry;  do  let  me 


see  you  part  of  the  way  back,”  and  I turned  to 
accompany  him. 

“ Oh,  nonsense,”  said  the  frank  young  sea- 
man, taking  the  hint  that  there  was  no  intro- 
duction to  be  expected;  “I  am  no  girl,  to  be 
afraid  of  a lonely  road.  Good-night;  you  won’t 
mention  what  we  were  talking  of  to  my  uncle 
or  Helen  ?” 

“No  danger  of  that,”  said  I;  “it  is  certainly 
not  a subject  to  be  mentioned  to  them.” 

“Of  course  not;  but  I thought  it  better  to 
make  sure  you  wouldn’t ; good-night  again ;” 
and  Barry  marched  back  to  Notting  Hill  House. 


CHAPTER  XXYI. 

THE  REVIEW. 

We  met  there  on  many  a succeeding  Satur- 
day ; we  continued  as  good  friends  as  we  had 
been  before  that  conversation.  Neither  party 
ever  returned  to  it,  though  Charles  regularly 
walked  home  with  me — that  is,  to  the  opening 
of  Petersburg  Place ; and  things  went  on  as  they 
had  done  in  the  company  of  Mr.  Forbes  and  his 
daughter.  The  former  talked  to  his  nephew, 
and  the  latter  talked  to  me.  My  mind  did  re- 
vert occasionally,  while  she  sat  working  close  by 
at  her  everlasting  embroidery,  singing  at  the 
piano,  or  pointing  my  attention  to  some  choice 
article  in  one  of  the  serious  periodicals  which 
covered  the  drawing-room  table — it  did  revert, 
I say,  to  Barry’s  fancied  discovery  of  the  carry- 
ing on.  “ She  is  good,  you  know,  and  wouldn’t 
show  it  like  other  girls,”  turned  up  in  my  recol- 
lection sometimes ; but  there  was  nothing  in 
Helen’s  manner  to  justify  such  an  implication. 
I persuaded  myself  there  was  not,  and  was  well 
pleased  with  that  persuasion.  Was  I not  an 
engaged  man?  and  had  I not  sinned  sufficient- 
ly against  Rosanna?  What  a complication  of 
my  ill  luck  or  ill  doing  it  would  be  to  involve 
the  daughter  of  my  family’s  benefactor ! No ; 
Helen  Forbes  did  not*  care  for  me,  except  as  a 
family  friend.  Having  once  got  on  that  foot- 
ing, we  could  not  get  off  it ; yet  vanity  or  con- 
science— I don’t  know  which — made  me  feel 
warned  I resolved  on  looking  well  to  my 
ways  in  Miss  Forbes’s  company,  to  take  care 
that  Charles  Barry ,might  have  no  occasion  for 
doing  cousin’s  duty,  and — what  was  far  more 
to  be  dreaded — that  I should  have  no  farther 
occasion  for  regret  or  repentance.  Rosanna 
got  more  than  common  attention  in  the  ensu- 
ing weeks ; but  I found  the  Joyces  more  fre- 
quently from  home,  and  the  slatternly-looking 
maid  in  Bolton  Row  could  never  tell  me  where 
they  had  gone,  or  when  they  should  return. 
Rosanna  could  always  explain  matters  ; it  was 
Jeremy  who  took  them  to  Greenwich,  Graves- 
end, or  Richmond;  “he  had  got  a situation 
now,  and  was  the  best  brother  in  the  world.” 
Sally’s  fits  also  seemed  to  increase  in  frequency, 
though  she  appeared  to  be  satisfied  on  the  sub- 
ject of  our  marriage ; several  of  my  visits  were 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


87 


disappointed  by  the  fact  of  the  doctor  being  up 
stairs.  Poor  Hosanna  always  ran  down  to  keep 
me  out  of  the  scene.  What  care  and  tender- 
ness the  girl  had  for  me,  and  how  she  must 
have  watched  for  my  voice  and  step  ! Well,  I 
was  doing  my  duty  to  her,  and  behaving  like  a 
man.  Curzon  Street  had  no  attraction  for  my 
feet  now.  The  private  door  in  Old  Broad  ■Street 
was  passed  without  regard.  I had  seen  Calixi 
in  the  street,  and  never  recognized  him.  I had 
made  no  attempts  to  fish  news  out  of  Esthers. 
The  first  step  in  conquering  my  folly  had  mani- 
festly been  taken,  and,  as  the  French  say,  it  is 
the  only  one  which  costs.  I had  also  taken  a 
resolution  to  attempt  no  explanations  of  my  ab- 
sence or  neglect,  should  Madame  think  it  worth 
her  while  to  call  me  to  account.  To  the  woman 
who  had  magnified  my  constancy,  and  taken 
such  active  measures  to  remove  the  last  obsta- 
cle between  her  clerk  and  his  happiness,  I would 
rather  have  faced  the  scaffold  than  told  the  true 
state  of  the  case.  There  was  no  other  story 
that  would  serve  for  her  or  for  me.  I would 
attempt  none,  but  say  that  I wished  to  break  off 
the  compact  I had  voluntarily  made,  and  leave 
it  to  her  pride  or  generosity  to  release  me  with- 
out question.  Would  she  be  much  offended  ? 
Would  she  be  curious  on  the  subject?  Proba- 
bly neither.  Her  Broad  Street  business  and 
Mayfair  fashion  would  be  sufficient  to  occupy 
her  till  she  took  another  whim,  and  elected  some- 
body else  to  the  office  of  humble  companion  and 
friend,  never  to  be  acknowledged  except  in  the 
back  rooms  or  the  villa. 

I was  confirmed  in  the  latter  idea  by  a sus- 
picion that  Madame  had  returned  fi'om  her 
Russian  expedition,  though  I had  got  neither 
notice  or  glimpse  of  her ; for,  going  into  the 
bank  one  day,  I observed  a carriage,  evidently 
that  of  some  foreign  nobleman,  with  arms  on 
the  panel,  and  postillions  and  outriders  in  rich 
livery,  standing  at  the  private  door.  The  un- 
usual sight  made  me  conclude  it  must  be  some 
client  of  more  than  common  importance  who 
had.  come  to  talk  over  business  with  the  lady  of 
the  firm.  There  would  doubtless  be  more  plate 
or  jewelry  stowed  away  in  those  secure  vaults. 
The  rich  livery  and  the  arms  probably  required 
support  in  the  shape  of  a loan ; but  what  was 
that  to  the  manager’s  clerk,  who  had  his  work 
to  do  and  his  salary  to  earn  ? 

It  was  now  the  last  week  in  October.  Rhoda 
and  I had  become  accustomed  to  our  mourning 
trim  and  our  diminished  household,  and  the  in- 
habitants of  London  got  a great  opportunity  of 
crowding  and  pushing  each  other.  Some  regi- 
ments of  Guards  which  had  formed  part  of  the 
army  of  occupation  in  France  had  got  home, 
and  were  to  be  reviewed  in  Hyde  Park  by  the 
Prince  Regent,  assisted  by  the  Duke  of  Wel- 
lington and  other  military  celebrities.  The 
town  was  as  fond^of  a sight  then  as  it  is  now, 
and  by  no  means  so  empty  in  autumn.  Many 
West  End  families  were  still  at  home — not  in 
the  back  rooms,  but  publicly;  and  nobody  of 
any  pretensions  to  fashion  thought  of  going 


farther  away  than  Brighton,  there  being  eternal 
moving  between  its  Pavilion  and  Carlton  House. 
The  review  in  question  had  extraordinary  at- 
tractions : the  Guards  had  been  at  Waterloo  ; 
there  were  colors  to  be  presented  ; a report  had 
gone  abroad  that  the  Princess  of  Wales  (after- 
ward Queen  Caroline)  had  privately  returned 
from  her  travels,  and  would  make  her  public  ap- 
pearance in  the  Park,  to  the  expected  confusion 
of  his  royal  highness.  All  London  were  going 
to  see,  and  taking  their  friends.  Rosanna  told 
me  she  had  never  seen  a review,  save  one  in 
the  Phoenix  Park  when  she  wore  short  frocks, 
and  it  was  beautiful ; so  I promised  to  take 
her;  for  the  loyalty  of  the  city,  being  great  in 
those  times,  made  it  a general  holiday,  and  the 
Palivez  bank  always  followed  the  public  ex- 
ample. Rhoda  had  never  seen  a review,  but 
thought  it  must  be  an  uncommon  fine  sight, 
and  she  should  like  to  go.  Miss  Forbes  was  of 
the  same  opinion.  Her  father  was  patriotically 
inclined,  and  wanted  to  see  the  colors  presented 
to  a Scotch  regiment  in  particular.  Sally 
Joyce  said  Jeremy  must  take  her  to  a good 
stand,  for  it  was  the  last  sight  of  the  season. 
There  was  a great  getting  of  finery  ready,  and 
on  the  review-day  we  mustered  a strong  party, 
resolved  to  keep  together  against  all  chances, 
and  having  secured  an  eligible  stand  for  our- 
selves, from  which  it  might  be  hoped  we  should 
see  some  faint  outline  of  the  proceedings.  Jere- 
my had  the  honor  of  escorting  his  elder  sister, 
as  commanded  ; I took  charge  of  Rosanna ; 
Watt  Wilson  had  Rhoda  in  his  guardianship. 
The  worthy  bachelor  had  called  so  often  to  cheer 
her  spirits  and  give  her  lessons  in  housekeeping, 
that  I half  thought  my  sister  had  made  a con- 
quest of  his  woman-defying  heart,  since  Miss 
Livy’s  departure  left  her  in  sole  possession  of 
the  annuity. 

Helen  Forbes  leant  on  her  father’s  arm,  and 
they  kept  very  near  Rosanna  and  me,  though  I 
could  not  get  up  courage  to  introduce  the  girl 
who  had  such  a queer -looking  sister  to  my 
friends  from  Notting  Hill  House ; and  Wilson, 
feeling  himself  bound  to  keep  the  last  of  the  La 
Touches’  secret,  gave  his  employer  to  under- 
stand that  I had  got  acquainted  with  the  Joyces 
in  America,  and  was  just  civil  to  the  poor 
people  on  account  that  they  were  strangers  and 
from  Ireland. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  we  had  a long 
and  weary  stand,  a good  deal  of  elbowing,  and 
very  little  of  the  sight.  Whosoever  has  been  in 
a London  crowd,  and  not  what  are  called  car- 
riage people,  or  on  the  grand  stand,  will  be 
aware  of  our  experience.  But  Rosanna  said 
she  saw  the  officers’  plumes,  and  they  were  de- 
lightful. Sally  threatened  to  take  a fit  if  she 
was  pushed ; Mr.  Forbes  recommended  us  all  to 
keep  our  station,  as  it  happened  to  be  a safe  one, 
and  let  the  crowd  behind  us  scatter  awray,  and 
see  the  aristocratic  company  in  front  move  off 
the  ground.  The  weather  was  unusually  fine, 
and  the  arrangement  the  best  that  could  be 
made.  There  we  stood  gazing  and  talking 


88 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


while  the  terrible  London  public  surged  and 
swayed,  and  broke  away  in  slowly-dissolving 
masses,  bent  on  seeing  the  last  remnants  of  the 
spectacle  , and  carriages  filled  with  gayly-dress- 
ed  ladies,  groups  of  fashionable  equestrians, 
military  officers,  and  notables  of  all  sorts,  swept 
past  us,  and  were  recognized  by  the  cheering 
crowd. 

\ I had  done  my  devoirs  throughout  the  day, 
and  was  getting  considerably  tired  of  Rosanna’s 
“Goodness  me ! and  isn’t  that  fine?”  Helen 
Forbes  stood  at  my  other  side,  and,  as  there 
was  danger  occasionally  from  the  pressure  of 
passing  people,  I gave  her  my  other  arm,  that 
she  might  stand  the  more  safely  between  me 
and  her  father.  Pale,  slender,  and  delicate  as 
she  was,  Helen  looked  exhausted  with  the  long 
day’s  standing  and  being  pushed  about;  but  her 
cheerful  patience  and  good  sense  made  her 
pleasant  company  under  any  circumstances, 
and  Miss  Forbes  was  remarkably  long-sighted. 

“Do  look  this  way,”  she  said,  in  a half 
whisper,  directing  my  attention  to  a horseman 
whopvas  keeping  remarkably  close  to  one  of  the 
carriages  ; “ there  is  the  Russian  prince  whom 
Madame  Palivez  is  going  to  marry.  Esthers 
told  me  all  about  him ; his  name  is  Galatzin. 
What  a handsome  man  ! and  how  well  he  rides ! 
They  will  just  suit  each  other.  Esthers  says 
he  has  immense  estates,  and  is  of  the  highest 
rank  in  Russia  next  to  the  imperial  family. 
How  splendidly  Madame  is  dressed,  how  pleased 
she  looks,  and  what  attention  he  pays  her ! I ; 
am  sure  it  will  be  a match,  and  a very  suitable 
one — don’t  you  think  so,  Mr.  La  Touche  ?” 

My  eyes  had  followed  Helen’s  motion,  and 
seen,  as  the  carriage  came  neareiya  really  mag- 
nificent specimen  of  the  Russian  gentleman — 
large,  powerfully  made,  but  active  and  graceful, 
wearing  a field-marshal’s  uniform,  and  mounted 
on  a Ukraine  charger.  The  vehicle  to  which 
he  kept  so  close  was  one  I should  have  known 
among  any  number  — Madame  Palivez’s  own 
triumphal  chariot,  in  which  I had  seen  her 
borne  away  to  Carlton  House,  all  lace  and  dia- 
monds. She  sat  in  it  now  alone,  almost  as 
richly  dressed,  and  occupied  in  conversing  with 
the  attentive  horseman. 

“There  is  his  carriage ; who  can  these  ladies 
be  that  are  in  it?”  and  Helen  notified  the  very 
equipage,  postillions,  outriders,  and  all,  which 
I had  seen  at  the  private  door  in  Broad  Street ; 
there  were  three  ladies,  one  old,  two  young,  but 
all  foreign,  in  it ; who  they  were  I neither  cared 
nor  knew.  “ I found  out  it  was  his,”  she  con- 
tinued, “ by  seeing  him  drive  up  in  it  one  even- 
ing last  week  to  visit  Madame  in  her  villa  ; but 
the  hill- side  was  too  steep,  and  the  prince  had 
to  get  out  just  by  the  stream,  you  remember, 
where  we  saw  Madame  let  her  horse  drink — you 
are  looking  terribly  fatigued,  Mr.  La  Touche  ; 
do  let  me  liberate  your  arm,  and  lean  on  papa  ; 

I am  sure  he  is  not  so  tired.” 

I retained  her  arm,  and  replied  coherently 
and  satisfactorily ; one  does  the  like  at  times 
without  knowing  what  one  says  ; but  every  word 


I Miss  Forbes  had  uttered  passed  through  my 
brain  like  a plowshare  through  a stubborn  soil. 
Before  she  had  finished,  the  carriage  and  the 
cavalier,  getting  out  of  the  slowly-moving  crowd 
of  the  select,  passed  so  close  to  our  group  that 
Madame  could  not  avoid  seeing  every  one  of 
us ; but  had  we  all,  and  myself  in  particular, 
been  part  of  the  Park  trees,  she  could  not  have 
taken  less  notice,  and  I,  to  save  my  life,  could 
not  have  helped  looking  at  her.  How  easy  and 
yet  how  stately  she  sat  there,  letting  the  prince 
talk  his  best  in  good  French,  as  Russians  al 
ways  speak — looking  at  nothing,  but  seeing  all 
— getting  bows  and  nods  from  all  sides,  and  re- 
turning some  of  them,  a lady  too  certain  of  her 
position  to  be  concerned  about  it,  and  too  proud 
to  be  vain  of  her  advantages.  Yet,  as  her  car- 
riage passed,  and  as  my  eyes  followed  it  in  spite 
of  my  judgment,  a sudden  pallor  swept  over 
the  lady’s  face,  as  if  from  swift  and  inward 
pain,  and  I saw  Sally  Joyce  deliberately  gazing 
at  her,  as  if  expecting,  or  rather  demanding 
recognition;  and  she  said  to  Jeremy,  but  loud 
enough  to  reach  my  ears,  “ Passing  people  like 
dirt  in  that  fashion,  and  them  knowing  all  about 
her;  some  folks  have  brass  in  their  faces.” 
Jeremy  said,  “Hush,  Sally!  don’t  talk  in  that 
queer  way;”  on  which  his  sister  began  to  scold 
him,  with  an  assurance  that  she  would  talk*as 
she  pleased  ; that  her  mother  was  a lady  ; that 
she  regarded  nobody  for  their  riches  and  if 
things  weren’t  made  up  for,  she  would  say 
queerer  things  yet,  maybe.  I was  looking  and 
listening,  and  utterly  oblivious  of  who  it  was 
that  leant  on  my  right  arm,  when  a slight  move- 
ment like  shrinking  away  made  me  turn  to  Ro- 
sanna. Had  any  thing  in  my  face  or  manner 
given  her  an  inkling  of  the  truth,  that  she  look- 
ed so  distressed  and  frightened?  But  it  was 
over  in  a moment,  and  she  said  unconcernedly, 
‘4  How  grand  Madame  Palivez  is  to-day,  and 
the  prince  she  is  to  be  married  to  riding  beside 
her ! Do  let  me  go  and  speak  to  Sally  a min- 
ute ; she  is  getting  into  one  of  her  tempers,  and 
will  take  a fit.”  Her  arm  was  slipped  out  of 
mine,  and  she  had  slid  behind  her  sister  with 
some  gentle  remonstrance  before  I could  collect 
myself,  and  Helen  at  the  same  moment  drew 
my  attention  in  the  opposite  direction  by  say- 
ing, “My  cousin  Charles  has  been  paying  his 
obeisance  to  you  there  for  the  last  five  minutes ; 

I wonder  he  don’t  come  over;  but  I suppose 
those  young  officers  he  has  got  among  are  too 
gay  for  our  company.”  There  was  Charles 
Barry  among  a group  of  officers,  naval  and  mili- 
tary ; he  had  been  far  in  front,  was  still  at 
some  distance,  and  seemed  in  no  hurry  to  join 
us,  but  bowed  to  me  with  a stiff  courtesy  very 
unlike  his  wont,  and  as  I returned  the  salute 
Watt  Wilson  assured  us  there  was  a clear  pas- 
sage now,  and  we  had  better  get  home. 

When  we  had  fairly  turned  Rosanna  came 
back  to  me  ; her  fright  and  distress  were  over ; 
perhaps  it  was  all  about  Sally  and  her  dreaded 
fits.  She  told  me  a great  deal  on  that  subject 
which  I did  not  hear.  Rhoda  had  asked  her  to 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


89 


go  home  with  us,  but  she  could  not,  on  Sally’s 
account.  We  parted  in  the  Park,  and  the  kind- 
ly clasp  she  gave  my  hand  went  to  my  heart 
like  a dagger.  I got  home,  and  made  an  ex- 
cuse for  getting  out  again,  leaving  honest  Watt 
Wilson  and  the  Masons  with  my  sister:  they 
thought  it  was  some  appointment  with  Rosanna 
that  took  me,  but  it  was  to  scour  for  miles  along 
all  the  lanes  and  by-roads  in  the  neighborhood, 
through  the  fast-falling  autumn  night,  and  bat- 
tle with  my  own  desperate  thoughts.  My  calls 
in  Broad  Street  or  at  the  villa  had  not  been 
missed ; there  was  another  that  came  in  his 
carriage  or  on  his  Ukraine  charger,  a Russian 
prince  of  immense  estates,  and  rank  next  to  the 
imperial  family,  of  years  approaching  her  own 
— a suitable  match  for  the  last  of  the  Palivezi, 
the  heiress  of  their  wealth,  and  the  prudent 
manager  of  their  business.  Well,  was  it  to  be 
wondered  at  ? Princess  Galatzin  was  a title  that 
would  become  her,  that  would  tally  with  her 
pride,  her  high  descent,  and  doubtless  her  ex- 
pectations. It  was  a settled  thing ; every  body 
knew  it  but  myself ; for  some  small  end  of  his 
own,  Esthers  kept  all  such  news  from  me.  Ma- 
dame Palivez  would  marry  Prince  Galatzin, 
and  I would  marry  Rosanna  Joyce.  That  was 
the  proper,  the  natural  order  of  things.  I had 
chosen,  I had  made  sacrifices,  I had  been  as- 
sisted in  a most  friendly  manner  to  see  my  way 
clear  to  the  match ; I had  seen  my  danger, 
made  endeavors,  thought  myself  a free  agent, 
and  resolved  to  hold  by  the  right,  but  that  hour 
after  the  review  upset  all  my  resolutions,  can- 
celed all  my  endeavors,  and  brought  me  back 
to  bondage  and  despair.  I would  bring  out  the 
brass  key,  I would  call  upon  her  in  the  villa 
and  the  back  rooms ; I had  a right  to  do  so  — 
she  had  called  me  her  friend,  and  made  a com- 
pact with  me,  and  I should  at  least  hear  if 
Esthers’  story  were  true,  if  she  were  really  go- 
ing to  marry  the  prince.  What  was  that  to 
me?  Was  not  I an  engaged  man?  And  poor 
Rosanna  had  been  leaning  on  my  arm  at  the 
very  moment  I heard  the  news,  caught  perhaps 
the  altered  expression  of  my  face,  guessed — but 
no,  she  never  could  guess  the  altered  state  of 
my  mind  since  the  time  we  walked  and  talked 
in  Baltimore.  With  that  thought,  better  feel- 
ings and  wiser  reasoning  came  to  my  help,  but 
it  was  only  to  show  me  how  hopeless  the  case 
had  become.  In  spite  of  my  utmost  exertions 
after  duty  and  well-doing,  in  spite  of  my  avoid- 
ing the  snare,  and  holding  fast  by  honor  and 
promise,  the  fascination  was  upon  me  still  — 
stronger  than  ever,  it  seemed,  through  absence 
and  impossibility.  If  Madame  married  the 
prince,  she  would  probably  go  to  Russia  and  re- 
side there,  much  as  she  dreaded  the  climate, 
and  I should  never  see  her  more  ; but  the  bond 
was  on  my  heart  never  to  be  broken ; life  hence- 
forth had  no  aim — no  hope  for  me  ; yet  I would 
persevere  in  the  right  course,  keep  my  solemn 
engagement  to  the  girl  that  loved  me  so  long 
and  well ; never  could  my  conscience  bear  the 
weight  of  such  a crime  as  breaking  her  faithful, 


loving,  gentle  heart.  Had  I not  won  it  by  sin- 
cere and  earnest  wooing?  Was  it  not,  after 
all,  the  only  heart  that  cared  for  me  ? Madame 
Palivez  had  none  for  any  man,  if  she  married  a 
thousand  princes,  yet  it  was  plain  to  me  then 
that  I had  never  loved  the  young  Rosanna  as  I 
did  that  woman  so  many  years  my  senior,  so 
utterly  beyond  my  reach,  and  surrounded  with 
so  dark  a mystery.  Sally  Joyce’s  unaccountable 
looks  and  words  that  day,  my  'own  encounter 
with  the  ragged  man,  my  old  aunt’s  dying 
words,  spoken  on  the  verge  of  the  grave  and  in 
the  deep  midnight,  concerning  people  who  had 
a high  place  and  a fair  name,  and  her  conviction 
regarding  the  annuity,  all  at  once  came  crowd- 
ing on  my  memory : it  was  confusion  inextrica- 
ble and  without  measure,  but  it  came  with  a 
dreadful  sense  of  warning  and  of  crime. 

There  was  one  plan  for  me — the  best,  and  it 
seemed  the  only  safe  one : I would  delay  no 
longer,  but  put  it  out  of  my  own  power  to  break 
my  engagement  or  Rosanna’s  heart  by  getting 
married  as  soon  as  possible.  It  would  bring 
matters  to  a final  settlement,  give  me  th^||cares 
and  responsibilities  of  life  to  think  of  and  pro- 
vide for,  and  leave  less  time  for  dreaming  over 
worse  than  folly.  On  that  purpose  my  thoughts 
came  to  an  anchor,  as  it  were ; the  more  I con- 
sidered it,  the  more  rational  and  prudent  it 
seemed.  I felt  that  Miss  Livy  herself  would 
have  excused  the  apparent  disrespect  to  her 
memory  had  she  known  the  motive.  I could 
not  take  my  sister  entirely  into  confidence ; 
there  was  that  in  my  case  which  went  beyond 
Rhoda’s  understanding  and  experience  ; but  the 
very  next  evening,  when  the  fierceness  of  the 
inward  storm,  was  over,  and  I was  in  my  right 
mind  once  more,  I took  the  opportunity  of  get- 
ting into  private  conversation  on  my  peculiar 
affairs,  telling  her  what  high  time  I thought  it 
to  get  settled  in  life,  now  that  she  was  safely 
provided  for ; that  Rosanna  had  such  an  uncom- 
fortable home,  and  seemed  likely  to  agree  so 
well  with  her  in  No.  9. 

“Well,  Lucien,  you  know  best,  in  course,” 
said  Rhoda,  wdth  an  astonished  and  not  gratified 
look ; “ but  you  can’t  get  married  in  mourning, 
you  know — it  wouldn’t  be  lucky  ; and  I thought 
you  would  have  worn  it  six  months,  anyhow, 
for  our  aunt.” 

“It  is  from  no  disrespect  to  her,  Rhoda  ; and 
our  mourning  needn’t  be  cast  off  either,  except 
on  the  wedding-day.  Rosanna  and  I will  get 
married  very  quietly ; I don’t  see  why  we  should 
raise  a fuss  about  it ; you  and  Watt  Wilson  will 
be  sufficient  witnesses.  Sally  and  Jeremy  may 
attend  if  they  like,  and  we  will  come  from  the 
church  to  our  own  house.”  My  sister  was  look- 
ing at  me  while  I spoke,  with  great  amazement 
in  her  large  honest  eyes.  Perhaps  she  saw 
something  very  unlike  impatience  for  wedded 
happiness  in  my  face ; for,  when  I had  finished, 
she  gave  me  another  earnest  survey,  and  said, 
“Lucien,  are  you  afraid  of  any  thing  happen- 
ing between  you  and  Rosanna — any  division  or 
jealousy?  or  is  it  the  world’s  talk,  or  her  sister’s 


90 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


tongue  ? If  it’s  not  unruly,  nobody’s  is,  I know. 
But  what  is  it,  Lucien?  for  I don’t  think  this 
getting  married  in  a hurry  comes  of  your  own 
mind.” 

“You  are  right,  Rhoda;  there  ajre  reasons 
that  make  me  wish  to  settle  the  business — some 
that  you  have  mentioned,  and  some  more  that 
are  hardly  worth  mentioning.  We  have  been 
long  engaged  ; Rosanna  is  not  comfortable — not 
safely  settled  fit  home ; there  might  be  talk — 
there  might  be  jealousy,  as  you  say.  At  any 
rate,  it  is  best  to  get  married ; it  keeps  one  from 
changing  one’s  mind.” 

“ But,  Lucien,  dear,  it  would  be  worse  to 
change  one’s  mind  after  the  job  was  done.  You 
know  the  proverb  about  marrying  in  haste  and 
repenting  at  leisure.  1 know  your  promise  to 
Rosanna,  and  I don’t  want  you  to  be  a forsworn 
man ; but,  Lucien,  if  you  think  there  is  any 
chance  of  either  of  you  changing,  it  will  happen 
on  her  side  as  fast  as  on  yours,  or  I’m  mistaken ; 
but  if  you  think  there  is  any  chance,  for  good- 
ness’ sake,  don’t  get  married.  Changes  that 
begia  on  this  side  of  the  wedding-day  are  sure 
to  get  worse  on  the  other,  when  there  is  no  go- 
ing back.  Lucien,  dear,  I don’t  want  to  get 
secrets  out  of  you,  but  I have  had  a notion,  ever 
since  I saw  her  face,  that  you  and  Rosanna 
wasn’t  intended  to  go  to  church  together.  May- 
be I am  wrong,  Lucien  ; maybe  it  was  because 
I didn’t  want  to  part  with  you — and  marriage 
always  parts  brothers  from  sisters ; but  I did 
think  it,  and  so  did  my  aunt  that’s  gone.” 

“Rhoda,”  said  I,  “ don’t  press  me  farther” — 
her  faithful  and  affectionate  reasoning  was 
more  than  I could  bear  — “there  are  causes  I 
can’t  tell  you  which  make  it  prudent  for  us  to 
get  married  ; remember,  it  is  nothing  that  con- 
cerns Rosanna’s  reputation,  but  no  good  will 
come  of  putting  it  off  any  longer.” 

“ Then  don’t  put  it  off,  Lucien ; the  Lord’s 
directing  you,  no  doubt,  though  I don’t  see  the 
rights  of  it ; you  never  did  nothing  disrespecta- 
ble or  bad,  and  I’ll  warrant  you  are  thinking  for 
the  best  now.  Get  married  as  soon  as  you  like ; 
I’ll  do  all  in  my  power  to  make  you  a nice 
\yedding  dinner,  and  get  Mrs.  Mason  up  to  help. 
It  won’t  be  my  fault  if  Rosanna  and  me  doesn’t 
agree  well — I think  I could  agree  with  Sally  for 
your  sake,  Lucien.” 

“ I’ll  never  ask  you  to  agree  with  Sally,  or 
any  body  like  her ; Rosanna  is  a good  girl,  and 
will  do  whatever  pleases  me.” 

“I  hope  she  will,” said  Rhoda. 

“And  we  will  never  part,”  I continued,  “till 
you  get  married  and  leave  me,  perhaps  for  Watt 
Wilson.” 

“No,  indeed,”  said  Rhoda,  “he  is  a great 
deal  too  sensible  to  look  at  the  likes  of  me  ; and 
besides,  Lucien” — my  sister  drew  herself  up 
with  all  the  gentility  of  the  La  Touches  of  Ar- 
magh— “though  I have  got  no  schooling  my- 
self, I would  like  a more  larned  man ; but  I 
don’t  want  nobody ; just  you  take  your  own 
course — I’ll  warrant  it’s  a wise  one — and  get 
married  as  soon  as  you  like.” 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE  LOAN  AND  ITS  CONSEQUENCE. 

It  had  become  a sort  of  standing  arrange- 
ment for  me  to  visit  Rosanna  on  Sunday  even- 
ings. I chose  to  do  so  by  way  of  superseding 
Madame’s  claim  to  those  hours,  made  at  the 
time  she  gave  me  the  brass  key,  as  conscien- 
tious penitents  turn  to  sacred  duties  the  times 
in  which  they  were  wont  to  sin,  and  having  tak- 
en my  resolution  regarding  a speedy  and  quiet 
wedding,  I determined  to  announce  it  formally 
on  my  next  visit,  never  doubting  that  my  in- 
tended, together  with  Sally  and  Jeremy,  would 
make  their  preparations  as  quickly  as  I could 
wish.  The  review  took  place  on  Thursday  ; on 
Friday  evening  Rhoda  and  I had  come  to  an 
understanding,  as  related  in  the  last  chapter, 
and  on  Saturday  I went  to  Notting  Hill  House 
on  the  usual  invitation,  having  screwed  up  my 
courage  to  the  point  of  informing  Mr.  Forbes, 
as  his  friendship  to  the  family  gave  him  a 
right  to  hear  of  so  near  an  event.  The  pres- 
ence of  Charles  Barry,  however,  prevented  a dis- 
closure that  evening.  Stiffly  as  he  had  bowed 
to  me  in  the  Park,  the  young  sailo/  was  back  at 
our  old  point  of  friendship  and  familiarity.  If 
there  were  any  change  perceptible  in  his  man- 
ner, it  regarded  the  Forbes’,  with  whom  I 
thought  him  rather  more  on  his  guard  than 
usual,  and  the  mystery  seemed  explained  when 
we  got  out  on  our  accustomed  walk.  Charles 
lighted  his  cigar,  said  it  was  a fine  night,  took 
five  or  six  strides,  hemmed  three  times,  and 
then  said,  “ Mr.  La  Touche,  I know  you  to  be 
one  of  the  best  fellows  in  the  world,  and  I want 
you  to  do  me  a bit  of  a service.” 

“ Any  thing  in  my  power,  Mr.  Barry,”  said  I. 

“Well,  then,  I hate  ceremony,  and  I know 
you  don’t  want  it ; in  short,  hem  ! could  yon 
oblige  me  with  the  loan  of  ten  pounds  or  so. 
Staying  in  this  London  runs  away  with  a con- 
founded deal  of  money;  it  will  never  keep  in 
my  pockets  anyhow,  and  I happen  to  want  a 
trifle  for — for  a particular  occasion,”  said  Bar- 
ry ; “it  is  true  my  uncle  or  cousin  Helen 
would  lend  me  that  and  more,  but  I never  like  to 
ask  them,  you  see,  they  are  so  good,  and  so  se- 
rious, and  so  careful ; not  at  all  miserly,  though, 
I’ll  say  that  for  them ; and  then  I ran  away  to 
sea,  and  wouldn’t  go  into  the  bank  business, 
which  might  have  made  me  a rich  man  ; one 
don’t  like  to  show  an  empty  locker — purse.  I 
mean — and  get  good  advices  after  that,  so  I pre- 
fer asking  you,  though  we  are  not  much  more 
than  strangers ; I’ll  take  it  as  a great  obliga- 
tion, and  be  sure  to  return  the  money.” 

The  request  had  rather  surprised  me.  I had 
an  inward  conviction  that  the  emptiness  of  the 
locker  was,  and  would  be,  a frequent  case  with 
Mr.  Barry,  and  I had  no  confidence  in  his  con- 
cluding promise  ; but  Mr.  Forbes’  nephew  had 
a claim  on  my  finances ; I had  been  paid  my 
quarter’s  salary  within  that  week,  and  could  af- 
ford the  loan,  though  with  a doubt  of  never  seeing 
it  again,  and  a fear  of  renewed  applications ; so 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


91 


I assured  him  of  my  willingness,  happiness,  etc., 
hinted  that  the  like  was  not  often  in  the  power 
of  a man  in  my  position,  though,  fortunately,  I 
could  spare  it  for  the  present,  and  nothing  could 
give  me  greater  pleasure  than  to  serve  any  rela- 
tion of  Mr.  Forbes,  not  to  speak  of  the  sincere 
respect  I entertained  for  himself. 

“Iam  sure  it  is  very  good  of  you,  and  I’ll 
never  forget  it,”  said  Barry;  “they  don’t  give 
clerks  much  at  the  Palivez  banks,  I dare  say, 
for  all  the  wealth  that  woman  has — past  count- 
ing, they  tell  me ; and  she’s  going  to  marry  that 
Russian  prince ; by-the-by,  I don’t  think  it  is 
for  the  bank  he  is  looking  after  her ; she  is  a 
first-rate  woman,  Mr.  La  Touche,  a regular 
beauty,  though  there  is  something  too  proud 
and  high  about  her  for  my  taste.  But,  as  I was 
saying,  they  don’t  give  clerks  much  there,  or 
any  where  else,  and  if  you  should  happen  to 
run  short  at  any  time,  just  let  Charles  Barry 
know.  Shall  I wait  outside,  or  go  in,  till  you 
get  the  needful — that  is,  I mean,  if  you  haven’t 
it  about  you.” 

“ Do  come  in  ; I don’t  generally  carry  so 
much,  having  learned  Scottish  prudence  by  as- 
sociating with  the  best  people  that  ever  came 
out  of  Scotland  or  any  other  country.” 

“My  unde  and  cousin,  you  mean,”  said 
Barry,  accompanying  me  into  the  parlor,  where 
Rhoda  dropped  him  her  best  courtesy  and  re- 
tired. The  seaman  could  take  his  cue  from 
circumstances ; he  was  not  to  be  introduced, 
and,  therefore,  made  no  comments,  but  took  a 
good  look  at  my  sister,  intended  not  to  be  ob- 
served, seated  himself  with  great  complacency, 
pulled  out  a splendidly  gilt,  but  empty  pocket- 
book,  and  quietly  waited  till  I had  opened  my 
desk  and  handed  him  what  he  termed  the  need- 
ful in  the  shape  of  two  bank-notes. 

“Very  much  obliged,  I am  sure;  you  are 
the  man  for  a bark  in  distress,”  and  he  put 
them  away  with  the  air  of  one  to  whom  borrow- 
ing was  no  new'  business.  “ I’ll  return  it  with- 
in two  months  at  farthest,  and  never  forget  the 
obligation  ; let  me  hope,  Mr.  La  Touche,  that 
you  won’t  forget  my  purse  is  at  your  service  in 
any  stress  of  weather ; and,  by-the-by,  you  won’t 
mention  it  to  my  uncle  or  cousin  Helen  ; they 
might  think  it  odd  I didn’t  ask  themselves,  and 
you  know  how  very  good  they  are.” 

“ I never  mention  any  trifling  service  that  it 
may  be  in  my  power  to  do ; the  matter  rests  be- 
tween you  and  I as  one  of  mutual  confidence.” 

“ I knew  you  were  a gentleman,  every  irtch  ; 
from  Ireland  too,  like  myself,  one  of  the  Bar- 
ry’s of  Howth,  you  understand  ; but  good-night, 
and  a thousand  thanks.”  The  young  officer 
wrung  my  hand  till  I scarcely  thought  it  would 
be  fit  for  writing  again,  and  set  off  at  a rattling 
pace  toward  London. 

When  I knocked  at  the  door  in  Bolton  Row 
next  evening,  having  avoided  Curzon  Street, 
and  prepared  myself  to  surprise  and  delight  Ro- 
sanna, the  slatternly  maid  informed  me  that 
none  of  the  Joyces  were  at  home.  Their  attic 
was  certainly  dark,  but  I thought  it  very  strange, 


having  sent  a note  on  Saturday  to  announce  my 
coming. 

“Well,  sir,  I don’t  know  where  they  are 
gone,”  said  the  maid,  in  reply  to  my  inquiries; 
“ Miss  Rq,ganna  went  to  chapel  this  morning, 
but  she  didn’t  come  back.  Miss  Joyce  and  Mr. 
Jeremy  were  very  mqch  put  out  about  it  at 
first,  but  then  they  thought  she  was  a spending 
the  day  with  a friend ; and  it’s  my  belief,  sir, 
they  went  there,  too ; howsoever,  I’ll  tell  them 
you  were  axin,  and  leave  your  card  on  the  table 
up  stairs.” 

I went  home  rather  chagrined  and  disap- 
pointed ; it  was  strange  that  Rosanna  should 
choose  to  spend  the  evening  with  a friend  when 
she  expected  me.  I had  not  been  accustomed 
to  such  off-hand  doings,  and  the  . purpose  on 
which  I had  come  made  the  trifle  jar  still  more 
upon  me.  I would  not  call  again  till  she  gave 
some  sign  of  repentance.  Rosanna  would  not 
be  long  about  that ; a letter  of  ill-spelled  apolo- 
gies and  earnest  requests  to  see  me  would  prob- 
ably be  awaiting  my  return  home,  if  not  for- 
warded by  some  street-boy  to  the  bank.  I said 
as  much  to  Rhoda  ; but  Monday  came,  I came 
home,  and  there  was  no  letter.  It  was  very 
strange;  but  Rosanna  should  get  time  to  come 
to  her  senses  ; it  might  be  well  to  let  her  know 
I was  not  to  be  trifled  with  before  the  wedding- 
day  or  after  it.  A man  keeping  his  engage- 
ment can  sit  down  coolly  in  such  circum- 
stances ; and  I had  sat  down  to  tea  with  my 
sister  by  our  bright  fire,  for  the  night  had  fallen 
an  hour  or  more,  when  a thundering  knock  at 
the  door  startled  us  both,  and  before  we  could 
recover  our  composure,  in  rushed  Sally  Joyce, 
her  old  shawl  half  off,  her  bonnet  half  on, 
her  gray,  tangled  hair  streaming  over  her  face, 
and  her  eyes  flashing  fury. 

“ Mr.  La  Touche,”  she  cried,  flinging  herself 
on  the  sofa,  “our  family  are  ruined,  and  mv 
heart  broken.  I know  I’ll  never  get  over  it, 
neither  will  Jeremy — neither  will  you,  for  that 
matter — Rosanna  has  gone  off— eloped  with  that 
Mr.  Barry — the  wretch  ! the  villain  ! and  they 
are  not  married  yet.  But  you’ll  save  her  — 
you’ll  rescue  my  sister  from  ruin — you’ll  make 
him  marry  her.  She  has  behaved  very  ill  to 
you,  I must  allow ; but  neither  she  nor  Jeremy 
ever  would  take  my  advice ; their  mother  was  a 
common  persori.  And  you  wouldn’t  be  advised 
either,  Mr.  La  Touche ; you  wouldn’t  get  mar- 
ried in  Baltimore  when  I wanted  you,  and  you 
wouldn’t  get  married  here — first  on  account  of 
your  old  aunt,  and  then  on  account  of  your 
mourning.  It  is  all  your  fault  that  my  sister 
has  disgraced  herself  and  me.  Oh,  gracious ! 
gracious  ! to  think  of  a respectable  family  ruin- 
ed and  brought  to  shame ; but  I’ll  drown  my- 
self,” and  she  fell  back  with  a tremendous 
shriek. 

Why  Sally  did  not  take  a fit  was  a problem 
Rhoda  could  never  solve ; but  the  excitement 
was  more  assumed  than  real,  and  there  was  no 
encouragement  for  demonstrations.  My  sister 
and  I sat  fairly  stunned  and  stupefied  for  some 


92 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


minutes,  the  news  was  so  startling,  so  unex- 
pected ; while  Sally  quietly  drew  herself  up 
again,  looked  at  us  both,  and  said,  “Yes,  in- 
deed, it’s  true ; she’s  gone  off  with  Mr.  Barry, 
and  somebody  must  make  him  marry  her. 
You’ll  do  it,  Mr.  La  Touche ; you  wouldn’t  for- 
sake us  in  our  trouble — you  wouldn’t  see  our 
family  disgraced.” 

By  this  time  there  was  another  knock,  and 
in  came  Jeremy  looking  as  subdued  as  ever,  but 
very  much  out  of  breath , his  sister  had  evi- 
dently outrun  him.  He  sat  down  in  the  cor- 
ner, the  place  assigned  him  by  nature ; I col- 
lected my  scattered  senses  sufficiently  to  inquire 
into  particulars.  Rhoda  ably  assisted  me.  We 
had  both  got  an  inkling  of  design  and  prepara- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  Joyces ; and  between 
comments  and  questions,  which  neither  memory 
nor  patience  will  permit  me  to  set  down  in  full 
minuteness,  we  made  out  that  Charles  Barry 
had  been  paying  Rosanna  attentions  for  some 
time,  “ entirely  unknown  to  Jeremy  and  me,” 
said  Sally ; “we  wouldn’t  have  suffered  such  a 
thing,  on  your  account,  Mr  La  Touche  — but 
girls  are  so  artful and  that  on  the  Sunday, 
when  I was  to  call  with,  my  great  intelligence, 
she  had  gone  out,  on  a pretense  of  going  to 
chapel — “in  her  very  best  clothes,”  said  Jere- 
my— did  not  return  at  the  usual  time,  and  was 
finally  traced  to  a post-chaise  waiting  for  her — 
it  was  supposed,  by  appointment — at  the  top  of 
Berkeley  Street,  with  Mr.  Barry  inside,  which 
carried  the  pair  to  Gravesend,  where  his  ship, 
the  Rattlesnake , was  lying,  and  Rosanna  was 
established  in  genteel  lodgings.  It  was  also 
evident  to  us  that  the  elder  sister  and  brother, 
notwithstanding  their  disavowal,  had  been  cog- 
nisant of  the  courtship,  and  hoped  for  a match 
which  would  raise  their  sister  to  the  position  of 
a naval  officer’s  lady — a bit  of  rank  being  dear 
to  the  souls  of  the  Joyces  — but,  like  most  of 
their  class,  they  had  miscalculated  on  the  world 
they  were  in.  Sally  was  not  to  be  disappoint- 
ed so  easily,  however ; when  matters  went  con- 
trary to  her  expectations,  she  thought  of  me  as 
a power  that  might  be  brought  to  bear  on  Barry 
— hence  our  evening  visit  and  acquaintance 
with  the  event. 

I have  said  that  the  first  announcement  of  it 
stunned  and  stupefied  me.  Rosanna’s  falsehood 
and  desertion  were  the  last  things  I could  have 
expected  in  this  world — the  girl  so  fond,  so  de- 
voted, so  simply  dependent  on  my  slightest  word, 
so  ready  to  acquiesce  in  all  my  wishes,  whose 
gentle  faith  had  risen  up  like  an  accusing  angel 
against  my  involuntary  forgetfulness  of  the  long- 
pledged  vow,  whose  loving  constancy  had  made 
me  determine  to  cleave  to  her  in  spite  of  every 
temptation  of  my  own  heart,  and  every  drawback 
in  herself  and  family.  Yet  all  the  time  she  was 
playing  me  false — playing  herself  false  too.  I 
could  see  through  it  now,  and  understand  a 
thousand  indications  which  had  been  mistaken 
or  unobserved  at  the  time.  The  frequent  ‘ ‘ from 
home’s,”  the  runnings  down  with  accounts  of 
Sally  being  in  a fit,  to  prevent  my  getting  up 


stairs,  the  high-pitched  voice  and  laughter  set 
down  to  the  doctor’s  credit,  and  many  more  tri- 
fles not  worth  recording,  were  now  plain  and 
circumstantial  evidence  of  what  had  been  going 
on.  The  like  faithless  artifices  have  turned 
true  and  honest  men  to  be  women-haters  all 
their  days — not  rational,  perhaps,  yet  not  to  be 
wondered  at.  Even  I recoiled  from  the  smooth, 
silly,  yet  deep  depravity  of  the  character  I had 
thought  so  simple  and  childlike ; my  pride  was 
sorely  wounded,  my  sense  of  honor  and  truth 
was  revolted,  but  my  conscience  told  me  that  I 
also  had  been  false  and  faithless  in  heart,  though 
not  in  action  or  intent ; and  I could  not  assume 
the  betrayed  and  injured  man,  however  suitable 
to  the  circumstances  in  which  I found  myself 

“ I am  sorry  for  her  own  sake  and  for  yours,” 
I said,  with  a calmness  that  astonished  Rhoda. 
“ If  it  were  in  my  power  to  save  her  from  shame 
and  ruin,  I would  do  it;  but  since  she  has  vol- 
untarily placed  herself  in  such  a position,  there 
is  no  law,  no  means  available  for  her  rescue. 
As  her  nearest  relations,  it  is  your  duty  to  go 
and  endeavor  either  that  Barry  shall  marry  her, 
or  that  the  improper  connection  may  be  broken 
up.  Neither  common  sense  nor  the  feelings  of 
a gentleman  permit  me  to  interfere.  I can  not 
challenge  Mr.  Forbes’s  nephew  to  meet  me  with 
pistols  in  our  country’s  fashion,  if  there  were 
not  other  sound  and  weighty  reasons  against 
such  a proceeding.” 

“But  you  can  go  and  talk  to  him,”  cried 
Sally.  “ Somebody  must  go  ; he  won’t  mind 
Jeremy  or  me.” 

“ No,  Miss  Joyce ; I can  not,  and  I will  not. 
There  is  but  one  way  in  which  Mr.  Barry  and 
I could  meet,  according  to  the  opinions  of  Irish 
gentlemen  ; and  though  I am  not  in  the  position 
once  occupied  by  my  family,  I can  not  so  far 
forget  my  early  education.  Your  sister  has  be- 
haved unhandsomely  toward  me — but  we  will 
pass  that  over ; she  has  behaved  still  more  un- 
handsomely to  herself  and  to  you.  Yet,  for  the 
affection  that  was  once  between  ns,  I wish  to 
save  her  from  the  consequences,  if  possible;  and 
the  only  practicable  course  I can  see,  since  Bar- 
ry will  not  mind  you  or  Jeremy,  is  to  apply  to 
his  uncle,  Mr.  Forbes.  He  is  a good  man,  and 
his  advice  may  have  some  weight  with  his 
nephew.” 

“Couldn’t  you  go  to  Mr.  Forbes?”  cried 
Sally.  “You  are  such  friends  with  him  and 
his  daughter!  Poor  Rosanna  always  thought 
there  was  something  between  you.  I am  sure 
it  was  that  that  drove  her  to  do  what  she  did. 
Oh  ! but  we  are  the  unfortunate  family ! every 
body  helping  to  betray  and  ruin  us.” 

I stopped  Miss  Joyce  with  a brief  but  explicit 
declaration  that  I would  not  go  on  such  a mis- 
sion to  Mr.  Forbes ; that,  if  such  an  application 
were  made  at  all,  it  should  come  from  her  and 
her  brother,  and  that  I would  support  it  with  all 
the  influence  my  intimacy  with  the  family  gave 
me,  at  the  same  time  prudently  advising  that 
she  should  apply  by  an  humble  letter,  and  not  a 
personal  appearance  at  Notting  Hill  House.  To 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


93 


my  great  surprise  and  gratification,  Sally  was  | 
prepared  to  avoid  the  latter  course.  She  had 
paid  a visit  to  Mr.  Forbes  at  his  own  bank  in 
order  to  ask  a holiday  for  Jeremy,  I believe, 
according  to  her  intrusive  custom.  Helen  hap- 
pened to  be  in  her  father’s  private  room  at  the 
time,  and  the  composed,  melancholy  gravity  of 
father  and  daughter  seemed  to  have  effectually 
subdued  and  almost  frightened  the  chieftainess 
of  the  Joyce  household.  In  short,  she  was  in 
no  haste  for  going  to  Notting  Hill  House.  Jer- 
emy refused  to  go — supported,  I believe,  by  my 
countenance — though  Sally  wanted  things  done 
on  the  spot.  She  would  have  scolded,  probably 
gone  into  fits ; but  I stood  calmly  on  my  wrongs, 
Rhoda  followed  my  example,  and  at  a rather 
late  hour  we  got^the  Joyces  sent  home  to  write 
to  Mr.  Forbes  and  look  after  Rosanna. 

Is  it  a shame,  is  it  a sorrow^  to  confess  that, 
when  I retired  into  the  parlor  with  the  full 
knowledge  that  my  plighted  bride’s  breach  of 
vows  had  made  me  a free  man  from  the  engage- 
ment of  three  years’  standing,  for  which  I had 
flung  away  my  chance  of  wealth  and  station, 
worked  so  steadily  and  struggled  so  hard  against 
both  friends  and  fortune — I felt  positively  un- 
bound, rechartered,  and  almost  light  of  heart  ? 
It  was  no  wrong,  no  cause  of  repentance,  to  love 
Madame  Palivez  now.  What  if  she  did  not  care 
for  ihe,  and  never  would,  after  my  fashion? 
Yet  was  I not  her  friend  ? Had  she  not  made 
a compact  with  me,  and  given  me  a brass  key, 
the  former  of  which  I had  broken  and  the  latter 
laid  aside  for  the  sake  of  one  who  was  deceiving 
and  cheating  me  all  the  while  ? I would  go  to 
the  villa  and  to  the  back  rooms  now  without  re- 
morse ; but  she  had  forgotten  me,  and  was  go- 
ing to  marry  Prince  Galatzin. 

“Lucien,  dear,  don’t  take  it  so  much  to 
heart,”  said  Rhoda,  coming  up  to  me  before  I 
was  aware,  and  laying  her  hand  on  my  shoulder, 
where  I stood  deep  in  my  own  thoughts  by  the 
fading  fire.  “She  is  not  worth  thinking  of, 
that  could  behave  so  to  you.  It  is  hard,  I’ll 
allow,  after  so  many  years’  company  keeping, 
and  all  that  you  have  done  to  marry  and  get  a 
home  for  her ; but,  Lucien,  dear,  don’t  take  it 
to  heart ; there  is  enough  women  in  the  world 
besides,  goodness  knows!  You’ll  get  a wife 
worth  a thousand  of  her.  I always  knew  she 
was  deep  and  deceitful ; so  did  our  poor  aunt 
that’s  gone.  I knowed  it  by  her  look,  though 
she  didn’t  say  it,  the  very  first  day  you  brought 
her  here.  Time  has  showed  what  was  in  her. 
But,  Lucien,  I love  you  better  than  ever  she 
did and  I felt  my  sister’s  tears  fall  heavy  on 
my  hand. 

She  was  thinking  of  Rosanna,  and  I was 
thinking  of  Madame  Palivez.  The  illusion 
had  to  be  maintained,  but  I could  not  let  my 
sister  grieve  unnecessarily. 

“ Rhoda,”  said  I,  flinging  my  arms  about  her, 
“ I know  you  love  me  better  than  ever  she  did 
— better  than  I deserve  ; but  don’t  grieve  about 
it.  I won’t  take  it  to  heart ; she  is  not  worth 
it,  as  you  say.  I know  there  are  more  women 


in  the  world,  but  I want  no  more  of  them.  I’ll 
never  marry ; my  own  good  sister  is  better  and 
truer  to  me  than  any  wife.” 

Rhoda  did  not  know  the  real  spring  of  that 
speech ; but  she  kissed  me  and  dried  her  eyes, 
saying  at  the  same  time, 

“But,  Lucien,  dear,  you’ll  speak  to  Mr. 
Forbes,  and  get  him  to  talk  to  the  young  gen- 
tleman. You  wouldn’t  let  her  fall  into  ruin  and 
disgrace,  for  all  that  has  come  and  gone.” 

I promised  every  thing  possible  ; and  Rhoda 
and  I talked  over  the  whole  subject  for  an  hour 
or  two  before  we  parted  for  the  night.  I think 
she  considered  me  a perfect  model  of  good  sense 
and  pious  resignation,  from  the  calmness  and 
fortitude  with  which  I bore  the  disappointment 
of  my  fondest  hopes  ; and  her  estimate  rose  still 
higher  on  the  following  morning,  when  the  early 
post  brought  me  an  American  letter  inclosing 
my  uncle’s  wedding  cards,  and  announcing,  with 
short  and  civil  formality,  his  marriage  with  Mrs. 
Maynard  and  adoption  of  her  son. 

“It’s  no  wonder  that  every  body,  from  Solo- 
mon down,  has  been  speaking  against  women 
these  hundreds  of  years,”  said  Rhoda,  “when 
one  thinks  of  what  yop.  throwed  away  for  her ; 
but  that  old  man  mightn’t  have  been  in  such  a 
hurry.  If  he  had  only  waited  to  hear  that  it 
was  all  over,  you  might  have  been  his  heir  yet, 
instead  of  that  widow’s  son.  Howsoever,  wTe 
can  live  without  him,  Lucien.” 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

• CHARLES  BARRY  PAYS  THE  PENALTY  FOR 
INDISCRETION. 

Esthers  did  not  look  quite  satisfied  when  I 
saw  him  next  day  in  the  bank.  Cunning  as  he 
was,  the  manager  had  been  misled  exactly  like 
his  half-sister  and  brother,  and  was  equally  cha- 
grined at  the  result.  He  had  too  much  pride 
or  prudence  to  enter  on  the  subject,  but  I knew 
how  it  stood  with  him,  and,  for  my  own  digni- 
ty’s sake,  kept  an  equal  reserve.  So  we  met, 
and  said  good-morning,  and  transacted  business 
as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and  all  the  day  the 
thought  of  being  released  from  my  engagement 
was  with  me  like  a new-left  legacy  or  a mort- 
gage paid  off.  Nevertheless,  I would  try  to  do 
what  was  right  and  generous  by  the  unlucky 
girl.  That  she  had  shared  the  family’s  delusion 
touching  the  high  match  I could  not  doubt; 
that  she  had  been  persuaded  through  her  vanity, 
weakness  of  mind,  or  very  movable  affections, 
to  elope  with  Charles  Barry,  was  also  plain.  I 
knew  the  Joyces  would  lose  no  time  in  making 
their  application.  I had  advised  them  to  do  so, 
and,  by  way  of  backing  it  up,  availed  myself  of 
the  privilege  of  intimacy  to  call  at  Notting  Hill 
House  as  early  as  I could  the  same  evening  in 
hopes  of  finding  Mr.  Forbes  at  home.  The 
serious  footman  never  thought  it  necessary  to 
announce  me.  I walked  straight  into  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  the  first  object  on  which  my  eye 


94 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


rested  was  the  man  on  whom  I was  bound  to 
take  vengeance,  or,  at  least,  regard  as  the  de- 
stroyer of  my  peace,  for  there,  opposite  to  Helen 
and  her  father,  sat  Charles  Barry.  Mr.  Forbes 
had  received  the  Joyces’  application  in  the 
morning,  and  the  good  man  sent  down  an 
urgent  request  to  Gravesend  for  his  nephew’s 
immediate  presence  at  Notting  Hill  House. 
Chaides,  either  unwilling  to  refuse  his  uncle,  or 
unaware  that  his  delinquency  had  come  to  the 
Forbes’  knowledge,  came  accordingly,  and  was 
in  course  of  being  lectured  or  advised  when  I 
made  my  appearance.  It  was  a trying  occasion ; 
but  the  difficulty,  being  real  only  on  his  side, 
made  Barry  evince  the  greater  perturbation. 
He  sprung  from  his  chair  the  moment  I entered, 
exclaiming,  “Mr.  La  Touche,  I am  ready  to 
give  you  the  satisfaction  of  a gentleman  ; but  I 
tell  you  here,  before  my  uncle  and  cousin,  I did 
not  know  you  were  engaged  to  the  girl.  I met 
her  in  Baltimore  at  the  theatre,  when  my  ship 
was  there,  the  summer  before  last.  We  struck 
up  acquaintance,  and,  confound  it,  have  been 
carrying  on  with  letters  and  meetings  ever  since. 
I saw  you  calling  at  the  house  in  Bolton  Row, 
but  they  said  it  was  comjng  to  see  Jeremy,  be- 
cause your  father  and  his  had  been  acquainted 
in  Dublin.  I had  a sort  of  suspicion  in  my 
mind,  for  nobody  can  deny  that  she  is  pretty, 
and  tried  to  sound  you  at  the  last.  You’ll  re- 
member it,  I dare  say ; and  I am  sorry  I bor- 
rowed the  ten  pounds.  I would  have  gone  to 
the  worst  Jew  in  London  rather,  if  I had  known 
how  the  land  lay.  But  you  put  me  off  the  tack 
— you  know  you  did  — or  I never  should  have 
acted  so  by  a friend.  I am  ready  to  give  you 
the  satisfaction  of  a gentleman — but,”  and  he 
glanced  defiantly  at  his  uncle  and  cousin — “no- 
body could  expect  me  to  marry  a girl  who  has 
deceived  us  both,  with  no  family,  and  a mad 
sister  into  the  bargain.” 

“ For  shame,  Charles !”  cried  Mr.  Forbes,  be- 
fore I could  get  in  a word-,  “would  you  add 
sin  to  sin  by  laying  all  the  blame  on  the  girl 
you  have  seduced,  and  putting  your  own  and 
another’s  life  in  jeopardy,  as  if  that  could  mend 
the  matter?  Sit  down,  Mr.  La  Touche,”  he 
continued,  shaking  hands  with  me;  “I  did  not 
expect  to  see  you,  but  I am  glad  you  have  come. 
Sit  down,  and  help  us  to  convince  this  foolish 
young  man  of  his  iniquity.” 

‘ ‘ Iniquity,  indeed,  ” cried  Barry.  There  must 
have  been  something  in  my  look  that  gave  him 
courage,  though  I did  not  intend  it.  “Mr.  La 
Touche  knows  the  world  better  than  to  make  so 
much  ado  about  nothing.  A frolic  with  a pret- 
ty girl  is  not  such  an  uncommon  thing.  One 
would  think  it  was  murder  I committed.” 

I knew  the  Scotch  banker  to  be  a nervous 
man,  and  one  of  high  principles ; but  I was  not 
prepared  for  the  shock  which  his  nephew’s  flip- 
pant and  commonplace  defense  seemed  to  give 
him.  He  turned  white,  as  if  struck  by  sudden 
faintness,  leant  back  in  his  chair,  and  partly 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

“Mr.  Barry,”  said  I,  catching  at  the  oppor- 


tunity to  have  my  say,  “had  I been  aware  of 
your  presence,  I should  not  have  come  here  this 
evening.  At  the  same  time,  allow  me  to  assure 
you  that  I attach  no  blame  to  you  for  my  own 
particular  wrong.  It  is  my  sincere  belief  that 
you  were  as  much  in  the  dark  on  the  subject  of 
my  claims  as  I was  regarding  your  pursuit. 
The  satisfaction  you  offer  is  neither  rational  nor 
requisite.  I want  nothing  of  the  kind  from  Mr. 
Forbes’s  nephew ; but  I ask  you,  as  one  who  has 
still  an  interest,  though  but  of  memory,  in  the 
case,  to  restore  peace  to  an  unfortunate  family, 
to  your  own  conscience,  and  to  her  future  life, 
by  marrying  the  girl  who  has  preferred  you  to 
me*  as  well  as  to  her  own  reputation.” 

“ Well  spoken,  and  worthy  of  yourself,  Lu- 
cien,”  said  Mr.  Forbes,  brightening  up  again. 
“ Charles,  there  is  a noble  lesson  for  you,  from 
a lad  many  a yeafr  your  junior.”  The  latter  ob- 
servation was  ill-timed,  to  say  the  least  of  it ; 
Barry  felt  himself  put  in  a corner,  and  replied, 
“ I am  very  much  obliged  to  him,  but  I am  not 
in  the  habit  of  wanting  lessons ; no  doubt  the 
one  he  has  given  would  serve  his  purpose  just 
now — not  a bad  chance  for  getting  the  girl  off 
his  hands.” 

“Mr.  Barry,”  said  I,  my  Irish  blood  boiling 
up  in  spite  of  good  sense  and  surroundings, 
“you  have  offered  me  the  satisfaction  of  a gen- 
tleman, and  I demand  it  now,  not  on  account 
of  Rosanna  Joyce,  but  for  your  base  insinua- 
tion.” I know  Charles  was  fumbling  for  a card, 
but  Helen,  who  had  been  sitting  silently  at  her 
needlework — I think  there  must  have  been  a 
composing  influence  in  that  girl’s  needle — rose 
from  her  seat,  stepped  in  between  us,  motioned 
me  to  sit  down,  took  Barry  by  the  arm,  and 
said,  in  her  gentle,  persuasive  manner,  “ Cousin 
Charles,  do  come  with  me.”  Barry  hesitated 
sullenly  for  a minute,  then  relaxed,  and  she  led 
him  quietly  out  of  the  room,  while  I sat  down, 
not  knowing  what  to  say,  and  feeling  that  my 
reputation  for  wisdom  was  gone  with  the  Forbes’. 
The  banker  looked  after  his  daughter ; it  was 
an  earnest,  thankful  gaze,  and  then  looked  at 
me  reprovingly  but  kindly  : “Lucien,  lad,  you 
should  not  give  way  so  far  as  to  countenance 
that  sinful  and  foolish  practice  called  giving 
satisfaction ; I know  it  is  too  common  in  your 
country ; all  countries  have  their  peculiar  sins 
and  follies,  proving  the  general  corruption  of 
human  nature.  You  were  sorely  provoked,  I 
grant,  but  the  lad  didn’t  know  what  he  was  say- 
ing; men  will  say  any  thing  to  excuse  their 
own  wickedness,  and  Charles  is  not  over-gifted 
with  judgment ; but  let  it  drop,  Lucien,  let  it 
drop.” 

I professed  my  willingness  to  follow  his  ad- 
vice ; a hostile  meeting  with  Mr.  Forbes’s  nephew, 
shooting  him  or  getting  shot  myself,  were  alter- 
natives not  to  be  seriously  thought  of,  though 
the  half  truth  that  lay  in  Barry’s  insinuation 
had  roused  my  wrath.  The  banker  and  I talked 
for  a considerable  time — it  might  be  an  hour — 
on  the  evils  of  dueling,  on  the  follies  of  his 
nephew,  on  the  difficulties  of  getting  him  to  do 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


95 


the  right  thing  under  present  circumstances, 
and  on  the  great  wrong  and  injury  he  had  inad- 
vertently done  to  myself. 

“If  I had  known  any  thing  of  it  in  time,” 
said  Forbes — “ but  one  never  knows  what  young 
men  are  after ; and,  for  that  matter,  I did  not 
know  of  your  engagement  to  the  girl.  Poor 
Miss  Livy  had  written  something  to  me  of  a 
difference  between  you  and  your  uncle  in  Amer- 
ica about  somebody  you  meant  to  marry  there, 
hut  I never  knew  the  particulars  till  Watt  Wil- 
son told  me  this  morning,  after  I got  the  Joyces’ 
letter.  It  was  a long  engagement  and  a great 
sacrifice,  lad — enough  to  break  an  honest  heart; 
but  you  have  sense  to  get  over  it,  Lucien.  I 
know,  from  what  Wilson  told  me,  you  loved  the 
girl  well ; a sad  and  sore  thing  it  is  that  true 
love  should  be  so  requited ; but  these  are  lessons 
that  teach  us  to  set  our  affections  on  Jhings 
above,  and  life  is  full  of  them,  in  one  shape  or 
another;  the  moths  corrupt  and  the  thieves 
break  through  and  steal  whatever  sort  of  treas- 
ures we  lay  up  for  ourselves  on  earth.  Aft- 
er all,  Lucien,  there  is  a kind  of  comfort  for 
you — you  missed  her  well ; the  woman  who 
could  be  so  false  before  marriage,  would  not 
have  been  faithful  after  it;  and  though  it  is 
right  and  lawful  that  Charles  should  marry  her, 
seeing  he  has  committed  himself,  yet  I find  it 
hard  to  advise  my  nephew  to  take  such  a wife 
for  better  or  worse ; but  we  must  do  our  duty, 
and  leave  the  rest  to  Providence.  You  bear  it 
gallantly,  lad,  but  the  blow  is  heavy,  to  find  de- 
ceit and  falsehood  where  one  had  laid  down  love 
and  truth  so  tried  and  tested  as  yours.” 

I could  not  look  at  the  honest  and  kindly 
Scotchman  sympathizing  with  what  should 
have  been  but  was  not,  and  sat  with  my  face 
averted,  he  probably  thought  to  conceal  my 
emotion,  till  the  rustle  of  a dress  made  me 
glance  toward  the  door.  Helen  had  entered 
so  quietly  that  neither  of  us  heard  her;  she  had 
been  listening  too,  which  was  not  like  herself ; 
and  what  could  have  passed  between  her  and 
Barry,  that  she  stood  leaning  against  the  wall, 
her  head  bowed,  and  her  face  as  white  as  paper  ? 
My  first  impulse  was  to  run  to  her,  but  she  gave 
me  no  time;  the  serious  girl  could  always  re- 
cover herself  quickly ; she  came  forward  on  the 
instant,  saying,  “ Mr.  La  Touche,  I have  come 
to  request  that  you  will  make  friends  with 
Charles ; he  has  promised  to  make  all  the 
amends  in  his  power,  and  allowed  me  to  say 
that  he  is  sorry  for  his  untrue  and  offensive 
words  to  you.  You’ll  make  friends  with  him, 
Mr.  La  Touche  ; he  is  but  a sailor,  and  not  very 
sensible.” 

“I’ll  make  friends  with  any  friend  of  yours, 
Miss  Forbes ; words  are  but  wind,  as  the  prov- 
erb says  ; I am  only  sorry  to  have  lost  my  tem- 
per at  such  folly.” 

“Right,  lad,  right,”  said  Forbes;  and  Helen, 
giving  me  one  of  her  sunny  smiles,  ran  out,  and 
returned  the  next  minute  with  Charles  Barry, 
looking  very  much  softened. 

“ Uncle,”  said  he,  “ I have  made  up  my  mind 


to  do  what  you  call  the  right  thing;  cousin 
Helen  has  talked  me  into  it — a woman  can  al- 
ways talk  me  into  any  thing ; but  I suppose  it  is 
proper — anyhow,  I am  going  to  do  it ; and  I 
didn’t  mean  what  I said,  Mr.  La  Touche ; it’s 
not  to  avoid  a meeting,  mind.  I am  afraid  of 
no  man  ; but  you  didn’t  deserve  to  be  so  spoken 
to.  Will  you  shake  hands?” 

“With  all  my  heart,”  said  I,  and  hands  we 
did  shake,  to  the  evident  delight  of  Helen  and 
her  father.  I never  saw  their  sober  faces  so 
lighted  up. 

Forbes  commenced,  and  congratulated  *his 
nephew  on  the  honest  resolution  he  had  come 
to,  and  the  blessing  that  might  be  expected  to 
follow  on  what  he  had  admitted  was  so  hard  to 
advise,  while  Helen  resumed  her  needlework 
with  accustomed  gravity,  and,  after  some  more 
reconciling  remarks,  we  changed  the  subject  by 
common  consent. 

I staid  to  supper,  and  got  renewed  credit  for 
wisdom  and  patience  in  Notting  Hill  House. 
Barry  walked  home  with  me,  puffing  his  cigar 
and  chatting  about  all  the  news  of  the  day. 
The  Joyces  brought  Rosanna  up  from  Graves- 
end, and  had  a very  quiet  wedding  at  their  near- 
est church.  Barry  took  her  to  the  Isle  of  Wight 
to  spend  the  honeymoon.  On  his  return,  I 
learned  both  from  himself  and  the  Forbes’  that 
he  had  discovered  all  sorts  of  talent  and  perfec- 
tions in  her  mind  and  manners.  Easy  and 
good-natured,  the  man  was  likely  to  make  a 
good  husband,  as  the  world  goes,  but  the  Rattle- 
snake was  dispatched  to  the  coast  of  Africa  to 
look  after  slavers ; he  went  with  it,  of  course, 
and  Mrs.  Barry  remained  at  home  wdth  the 
Joyces,  now'  in  great  exultation,  though  rather 
disappointed  that  they  were  not  more  noticed 
by  the  Forbes’  and  myself.  I believe  the  neg- 
lect of  the  Notting  Hill  House  people  was  en- 
tirely charged  to  Helen’s  account,  and  with  some 
reason,  for  Miss  Forbes  was  wisely  prudent. 

“The  girl  is  Charles’s  wife,  to  be  sure,  our 
relation  in  law,”  said  Forbes  one  day  to  me;  in 
one  of  our  confidential  discourses,  “but  Helen 
does  not  consider  her  a suitable  associate.  My 
daughter  is  discreet,  Mr.  La  Touche,  and  has 
the  clearest  ideas  of  propriety ; she  know's  there 
is  evil  in  the  world,  and  she  does  her  part 
against  it;  you  remember  how  she  sat  with  us 
and  helped  us  to  persuade  Charles,  in  fact,  gain- 
ed him  over  to  the  right  w'hen  we  could  not ; 
but  she  avoids  all  countenancing  of  it,  either  in 
deed  or  appearance,  and  these  Joyces  have 
shown  themselves  any  thing  but  followers  of 
whatsoever  is  honest,  lovely,  and  of  good  re- 
port.” Forbes  had  a sort  of  pride  in  his  daugh- 
ter which  I began  to  think  justifiable.  She  had 
brought  about  the  business  which,  in  a manner, 
cleared  my  conscience,  and  saved  Rosanna  from 
what  less  charitable  dames  would  think  deserved 
consequences,  though  Barry  did  not  approve  of 
her  after  wisdom  so  highly  as  the  banker. 
“ Confound  it,”  said  he,  when  calling  to  return 
my  loan,  just  before  the  Rattlesnake  sailed, 
“ she  takes  upon  her  to  look  down  on  my  wife, 


96 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


and  so  does  her  father — the  old  man  does- ev- 
ery thing  that  girl  bids  him — they  do,  Mr.  La 
Touche,  I know  it,  though  of  course  they  did 
not  say  so ; it  would  not  do  with  one  of  the 
Barrys  of  Howth,  and  you  know  she  was  the 
first  hand  aboard  in  making  up  the  match ; a 
right  thing,  I’ll  allow ; anyhow,  it’s  done,  and, 
once  on  that  tack,  nobody  can  get  off  it.  But 
Helen  might  take  Rosanna  a little  in  tow;  in 
fact,  I thought  she  would,  being  such  a great 
Christian,  and  up  to  every  thing  that’s  sensible. 
See  if  I will  go  to  their  dull  Saturday  dinners 
when  I come  back,  if  Mrs.  Barry  is  not  good 
enough  to  be  invited  ; she  is  a deal  prettier  than 
cousin  Helen,  anyhow ; just  let  her  begin  to  give 
me  good  advices  again  ! and  wasn’t  I green,  Mr. 
La  Touche,  to  let  out  about  the  ten  pounds  ? 
but  it  went  against  me,  on  account  of  what  I 
borrowed  it  for,  and  I did  think  my  uncle  would 
never  let  me  hear  the  end  of  it.  However,  by- 
gones are  by-gones;  you  and  I are  good  friends, 
I hope.  I can’t  just  expect  you  and  your  sister 
to  receive  Rosanna;  she  did  not  behave  quite 
handsomely  to  you ; but  women,  Mr.  La  Touche, 
were  never  to  be  trusted,  except  where  they  are 
not  over  pretty  and  are  uncommon  good,  like  my 
cousin  Helen.  I have  a notion  you  and  her 
will  make  it  up  some  day.” 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

LTTCIEN  LOOKS  OUT  THE  BRASS  KEY. 

To  return  to  my  own  peculiar  story.  I was 
now  free — free  to  go  to  Old  Broad  Street  and 
the  villa,  where  my  heart  had  been  always  go- 
ing, in  spite  of  honest  striving  and  hardly-done 
duty.  Yes,  I was  free.  Though  deeply  sympa- 
thized with  in  Notting  Hill  House,  Miss  Forbes 
and  her  father  thought  it  necessary  not  to  refer 
to  Barry  or  the  Joyces  in  my  presence;  the 
banker  talked  in  a more  lively  manner  ; Helen 
sang  more  Scotch  songs,  and  told  me  more 
about  Madame  Palivez’s  approaching  marriage 
than  ever,  expressly  to  cheer  up  my  spirits,  and 
blunt  the  edge  of  disappointment  and  regret. 
At  home,  Rhoda  almost  admired  me  for  pa- 
tience, prudence,  and  all  the  cardinal  virtues 
that  man  could  show  under  such  a heavy  trial ; 
and  I felt  my  liberty,  yet  did  not  rejoice  in  it. 
The  case  of  conscience  was  settled,  canceled, 
and  wiped  out  forever  .*  Rosanna  was  the  sinner, 
and  not  I.  We  were  parted  for  all  time  ; I had 
paid  for  my  folly  in  ever  meeting  or  getting  en- 
gaged , and  now  there  was  another  engagement 
pressing  on  my  memory  with  a heavier  but  far 
different  weight.  The  lawful  impediment  was 
removed,  but  the  unsolvable  warning,  the  threat- 
ening mystery  remained.  Night  and  morning 
I look  out  for  a sign  or  a message — any  apology 
for  getting  into  her  presence  after  so  long  a de- 
lay, and  under  my  peculiar  circumstances,  which 
Madame  must  know,  for  Esthers  did.  There 
came  none , and  still  the  little  sense  that  was 
left  me  said  it  was  best  so — best  to  get  and  keep 


clear  of  such  an  anomalous  association  ; lead- 
ing one  knew  not  whither,  surrounded  by  un- 
known risks,  carried  on  in  secret,  and  holding 
in  the  background  some  mysterious  tale  which 
seemed  to  blend  with  the  inexplicable  part  of  my 
own  family  history.  I was  warned,  but  the 
warning  was  not  a sufficient  barrier  against  the 
strong  inclination.  For  honor  and  conscience’ 
sake  I could  resolve  to  keep  safe  distance — I 
think  could  have  kept  the  resolution  too  ; but 
not  for  prudence,  not  for  self-saving,  or  taking 
care  of — the  bondage  was  too  firmly  riveted. 

She  did  not  send  for,  she  did  not  meet  me ; I 
knew  she  was  occupied  with  a coming-on  wed- 
ding. I must  expect  to  be  condoled  with  on 
my  own  disappointment,  but  I could  wait  no 
longer  without  seeing  her ; and  while  Barry  and 
his  bride  were  yet  enjoying  their  honeymoon  in 
the  Isle  of  Wight,  I took  the  brass  key  out  of 
its  hidden  corner  one  morning,  looked  at  it  all 
day  where  Esthers  could  not  see  me  in  the 
office,  and  when  the  bank  closed,  instead  of  go- 
ing home,  I made  my  way  through  the  old  over- 
grown church-yard  to  the  small  door  in  the  wall, 
turned  the  key  in  the  lock,  and  admitted  myself 
to  the  magnificent  conservatory  within.  It  was 
all  in  bloom  and  fragrance,  as  I had  seen  it  at 
first ; and  no  sight  or  sound  of  life  reached  me 
as  I walked  up  the  marble  stair,  through  the 
anteroom,  and  into  the  great  saloon  where  I had 
found  her;  and  there  Madame  Palivez  sat,  I 
think,  on  the  very  same  sofa,  almost  in  the  cen- 
tre, in  the  same  dress  of  purple  velvet  and  gold 
buttons — her  winter  trim  ; and  all  the  place  was 
lighted  up  with  wax  candles  and  classically- 
shaped  lamps,  for  the  dull  November  night  had 
fallen  heavy  and  damp  on  London. 

“Ah!  welcome,  my  friend,”  she  said,  ex- 
tending her  hand  with  a smile  that  made  the 
room  look  brighter ; “you  have  come  to  see  me 
at  last.  I knew  you  would,  or  I should  have 
gone  to  see  you.  Sit  down,  Lucien,  and  give 
an  account  of  yourself.  What  kept  you  away 
so  long,  when  you  knew  I was  at  home,  and  saw 
me  so  plainly  at  the  review  ?” 

“ I did  not  like  to  intrude  upon  you,  Madame, 
as  I understood  you  had  more  engaging  com- 
pany ” 

Was  it  craft  or  folly  made  me  say  that  ? 
“What  company,  Lucien?” 

“Why,  the  Russian  prince — Prince  Galatzin, 
whom  they  say  you  are  going  to  marry.” 

“Who  told  you  that  ? Come,  out  with  it!” 
How  mischievously  amused  she  seemed  at  my 
hesitation  ! “ Was  it  the  Joyces  ?” 

“No,  Madame,  it  was  Miss  Forbes,  and  she 
heard  it  from  Mr.  Esthers.” 

Madame  laughed,  but  she  was  not  amused 
now. 

“It  was  a very  natural  mistake  for  him. 
There  are  matters  about  our  business  which  the 
Palivezi  have  never  permitted  their  employed 
people,  however  confidential,  to  know.  Prince 
Galatzin ’s  affair  with  me  is  one  of  that  kind  ; 
and  I tell  you,  as  a friend,  it  regards  money, 
and  not  matrimony.  With  the  last  mentioned 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


97 


I have  no  concern,  Lucien,  and  never  will, 
having  passed  the  time  when  one  might  be  fool- 
ish enough  to  get  so  involved.” 

“Do  you  think  marriage  such  a folly,  then  ?” 

“Not  for  all.  It  is  one  of  the  world’s  insti- 
tutions, requisite  for  many  reasons  ; but  for  my- 
self it  would  be  folly,  and  worse.  I have  riot 
led  a woman’s  life  ; I do  not  think  as  a woman  ; 

I have  been  accustomed  to  steer  by  my  own 
judgment,  to  consult  my  own  inclinations, 
crossed  or  modified  only  by  the  laws  of  society 
and  the  powers  of  nature.  I am  averse  to  coun- 
sel, control,  or  responsibility  ; and  I know  of  no 
consideration  for  which  I would  barter  the  ease 
and  freedom  of  the  single  state.” 

“You  are  not  of  Dr.  Johnson’s  opinion,  who 
thought  that  marriage  had  many  pains,  but  the 
single  life  no  pleasures.” 

“Dr.  Johnson,  though  a capable  man  in 
many  respects,  a good  scholar,  and  something 
of  a wit,  was  no  philosopher ; besides,  he  had  a 
weakness  or  virtue — I know  not  which  to  call  it ; 
it  has  the  effect  of  binding  one  to  their  species, 
because  it  makes  one  most  dependent  on  them 
— I mean  that  intensely  social  or  domestic 
turn  of  mind  which  made  it  impossible  for  him 
to  live  alone.  Dr.  Johnson  shared  that  with 
the  greater  part  of  mankind ; certainly  no  ad- 
vantage to  the  individual,  but  necessary,  I sup- 
pose, to  the  well-being,  if  not  to  the  existence, 
of  society  ; families  owe  their  continuance  to  it 
as  well  as  to  less  discussable  causes ; from  it 
arise  communities,  clubs,  and  quarrels.  I am 
either  worse  or  better  off  than  Dr.  Johnson  in 
this  respect ; I have  learned  to  live  without  my 
species.  As  servants,  correspondents,  and  ac- 
quaintances, which  may  be  all  classed  in  the 
service  here,  I find  them  useful,  but  in  my  men- 
tal life,  which  is  the  only  being  at  home  we 
have,  I can  live  alone,  and  have  done  so  for 
years.  You  are  the  nearest  approach  to  a 
friend  I ever  had,  and  I want  no  nearer.  Re- 
member, I don’t  say  that  you  and  I may  not 
know  each  other  better — that  is  altogether  a 
different  affair;  but  as  regards  this  marriage 
business,  it  is  not  for  me,  nor  I for  it.  The  great 
house  of  the  Palivezi,  with  all  its  pride  and 
banking,  terminates  in  me.” 

“ May  you  not  change  your  mind,  Madame ! 
most  ladies  do,  they  say.”  I was  getting  very 
bold  ; but  she  looked  me  sadly  in  the  face,  and 
said,  “No,  Lucien,  I may  not.  There  were 
causes  that  made  me  come  to  that  resolution 
early — that  made  me  what  I am  with  thinking 
over  and  searching  into  them.  My  heart  got 
schooled  down  or  up,  my  friend,  to  counting 
costs  and  reckoning  on  consequences,  till  the 
life  and  feeling  wore  out  of  it,  and  I am  a ca- 
pable banker. 

“ But  why  do  you  reckon  only  on  risks  and 
evils  ?” 

“Because  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  reck- 
oned on,”  she  interrupted,  with  wild  earnestness, 
that  grew  more  desperately  miserable  as  she 
spoke.  “ Nothing  else  for  me  and  mine.  We 
have  suffered  through  ten  generations,  and  still 
G 


the  sin  and  the  sorrow  descends  through  all  the 
Palivez  branches  till  the  tree  once  so  fair  and 
spreading  has  come  to  one  bough,  waiting  for 
the  stroke,  and  the  wealth  and  honors  which  so 
many  envy,  not  knowing  their  fearful  price, 
must  go  to  strangers.” 

1 1 Is  Esthers  the  next  heir,  failing  yourself, 
Madame?”  said  I,  in  hopes  of  getting  at  the 
clew. 

“Esthers  !”  she  said,  with  a glance  of  queenly 
scorn,  which  made  the  lady  all  herself  again. 
“ He  is  illegitimate,  and  not  a Palivez.  Our 
bank  and  business  goes,  after  my  decease,  to  the 
great  Smyrna  house  of  Comenzoni,  whose  line 
is  almost  as  ancient  and  princely  as  our  own, 
and  was  connected  with  ours  before” — and  she 
pointed  to  the  portrait  beside  the  veiled  Neme- 
sis— “before  one  of  my  ancestprs  married  that 
Tartar  princess,  the  last  heiress  to  the  throne  of 
Kasan,  whom  Ivan  the  Terrible  had  to  dispose 
of,  and  did  it  to  our  cost.  But,  Lucien” — how 
suddenly  she  could  change  her  look  and  subject 
— “ in  all  this  talk  for  and  against  matrimony  I 
am  forgetting  to  say  how  much  I regret  your 
own  difficulties — disappointment  I ought  to  say 
— and  shameful  behavior  of  that  girl.” 

I had  forgotten  it  too  ; but  Madame  pro- 
ceeded— “I  have  been  suspecting  it  was  that 
kept  you  away  from  me.  Lucien,  had  I known 
any  thing  about  it,  you  should  have  got  early  in- 
formation, but  Esthers  kept  it  from  me.”  There 
was  deep  fierce  wrath  in  her  eyes  which  could 
not  or  would  not  be  uttered.  “Of  course  I 
never  inquire  into  their  family  affairs,  but  I 
wish  I had  for  your  sake.  She  furnishes  a 
good  example — I mean  the  girl  Rosanna — of 
what  one  so  often  gets  convinced  of,  namely,  the 
impossibility  of  fathoming  fools.  Simpletons, 
whom  one  thinks  one  can  read  through  and 
'through  like  a primer,  with  nothing  but  com- 
monplaces in  them  from  beginning  to  end,  sud- 
denly turn  up  some  aspect  of  character,  some 
capability  of  going  or  doing  wrong,  one  never 
dreamt  of.  I had  set  her  down  for  the  very 
thing  that  suited  you.  You  thought  the  same, 
no  doubt,  and  lost  and  endeavored  far  more  than 
she  was  worth  at  her  best  interpretation,  and 
this  is  what  noble,  conscientious  acting  comes 
to  in  a such  world.” 

“Never  mind,”  said  I,  “the  discovery  out- 
balances the  loss.”  She  fixed  her  eyes  on  me 
as  if  with  a keen  determination  to  read  me 
through  like  a primer,  and  said,  “ Lucien,  you 
did  not  love  that  girl.  At  first  I know  you  did. 
No  man  would  make  the  sacrifice  you  made  ex- 
cept for  love  as  sincere  and  honorable  as  ever 
romantic  youth  believed  in  ; but  you  did  not,  at 
the  last.  I know  it  by  your  look  and  by  your 
tone.  Don’t  redden,  my  friend  ; the  thing  was 
made  to  change  every  where  except  among 
turtle-doves,  and  that,  according  to  the  poets, 
who,  by-the-by,  seldom  imitate  the  example 
they  sing  so  often.  You  have  seen  somebody 
else  since  the  vow  was  made  in  Baltimore.” 

Had  she  put  the  question,  or  any  thing  like  it 
at  that  moment,  clerk  as  I was,  my  courage  or 


98 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


folly  was  up,  and  I would  have  told  her  all — 
who  it  was  that  had  come  between  my  heart 
and  the  girl  I had  done  so  much  for — who  it 
was  that  had  broken  away  the  faith  and  con- 
stancy herself  had  praised  and  partly  rewarded ; 
but  Madame  gave  me  no  opportunity.  With 
the  last  word  she  threw  herself  back  on  the  sofa 
in  that  careless  abandonment  to  mirth  or  amuse- 
ment which  I have  never  seen  in  another  so  far 
out  of  childhood,  and  laughed  with  all  her  heart. 
“ It  is  well,  my  friend,  it  is  well,”  she  said,  “ all 
things  change,  and  nothing  so  quickly  as  the 
heart  of  man.  What  a foundation  it  is  to  build 
one’s  happiness  on  ! but  why  didti’t  you  let  me 
know  that  when  we  talked  of  your  wedding 
nearly  six  months  ago  ? Were  you  too  proud 
or  too  honorable  ? How  lucky  that  she  should 
have  proved  faithless  ! She  would  have  proved 
the  same  if  you  had  stood  as  firm  as  the  ever- 
lasting rock,  which  I might  have  known  to  be 
an  impossibility.  Rosanna  was  not  the  woman 
to  retain  you.  The  Joyces  have  got  Barry  to 
marry  her,  they  tell  me.  That  was  more  than 
could  have  been  expected.” 

“ It  was  Miss  Forbes  that  reasoned  him  into 
it,”  said  I,  determined  that  Helen  should  get 
her  due. 

“The  more  fool  he,  to  be  reasoned,”  said 
Madame.  “ I have  seen  this  Barry,  and  he 
looks  a simpleton.” 

“ Do  you  think  that  simpletonship  ? Had 
not  the  man  a right?  Was  it  not  his  impera- 
tive duty  to  marry  the  girl  he  had  seduced?” 
I spoke  out  in  one  of  those  sudden  revulsions 
of  feeling  which  so  often  came  over  me  in  con- 
verse with  her.  It  went  against  my  nature  to 
hear  the  woman  speak  so  gracelessly  out  of  the 
security  of  her  social  position  and  hardness  of 
heart.  How  it  was  contrasted  in  my  memory 
with  the  gentle  charity,  and  pure  warm  sympa- 
thies of  Helen  Forbes. 

But  Madame  smiled  on  me  half  - kindly, 
half-scornfully,  and  said, 

“Lucien,  my  friend,  you  and  I have  no  time 
for  the  little  shams  which  every  body  feels 
bound  to  assist  in,  and  nobody  is  cheated  by. 
Rosanna  Joyce  seduced  herself ; so  do  most 
women  who  get  into  that  mischief.  I grant  you, 
society  makes  it  a greater  mischief  to  them  than 
to  their  companions  of  your  own  sex — an  absurd- 
ity which,  doubtless,  serves  some  purpose  or  pe- 
cessity  in  nature,  because  it  is  universal.” 

“And  therefore  must  be  just,”  said  I. 

“No,  my  friend,  it  must  not ; there  is  no  such 
thing  as  justice,  except  in  the  theories  of  phi- 
losophers or  the  dreams  of  poets.  Every  where 
the  strong  prey  on  the  weak,  the  crafty  on  the 
simple  ; and  whatever  rule  people  can  make  or 
discover  to  suit  their  interests  or  inclinations, 
they  call  that  just.  But  to  return  to  the  case 
in  hand.  Your  pious  friend,  Miss  Forbes,” 
and  she  spoke  with  a slight  sneer,  “ has  shown 
Mr.  Barry  his  duty  and  obligation  to  marry 
Sally  Joyce’s  sister,  and  he  has  fulfilled  them. 
Well,  what  are  the  consequences?  Mr.  Barry, 
having  made  such  an  alliance,  will  sink  to  the 


level  of  his  wife ; every  man  does  so  more  or 
less  ; it  is  one  of  the  curious  effects  of  your  so- 
cial system.  He  will  lose  caste — lose  self-re- 
spect, probably,  such  sort  as  he  has — lose  the  on- 
getting  impulse,  slide  down  to  the  Joyces,  if  not 
below  them.  They  are  proud  of  the  naval  offi- 
cer, of  course ; they  will  turn  him  to  every 
possible  account,  but  not  one  to  his  own  advan- 
tage. He  will  have  Sally  and  Jeremy,  as  well 
as  Rosanna,  hanging  to  his  skirts,  though  with 
little  credit  and  less  comfort  in  the  retinue ; 
and  his  excellent  uncle  and  cousin  in  Notting 
Hill  House,  being  prudent  and  pious,  will  keep 
particularly  clear  of  the  concern  they  have 
reasoned  him  into.” 

‘ ‘ Barry  should  have  kept  out  of  it  himself  in 
the  first  instance.” 

“So  he  should;  but  Barry  was  idle,  and  at 
Baltimore  once,  like  other  people.”  What  a 
thorough  knowledge  she  had  of  the  whole  story ! 
“Remember,  I do  not  say  there  was  an  atom  of 
resemblance  more.  You  are  simple,  Lucien, 
but  not  in  the  same  fashion.  By-the-by,  I won- 
der he  had  not  fixed  on  his  cousin — the  good, 
if  not  fair  Helen,  her  father’s  heiress,  and  your 
special  friend.  You  need  not  take  the  trouble 
of  denial,  Lucien;  I know  it  was  not  for  her 
that  your  heart  fell  from  its  allegiance.  You 
are  a man,  even  as  others — might  marry  Miss 
Forbes,  I dare  say,  if  opportunity  offered,  and 
the  old  man  was  agreeable.  But  you  did  not 
forget  Rosanna  on  her  account.  She  is  goo'd, 
but  not  pretty  ; and  no  goodness,  not  even  tal- 
ent, can  make  up  for  the  want  of  beauty  in  a 
woman.  You  are  sitting  there  convinced,  I 
see,  and  letting  me  do  all  the  talking — from  the 
feeling  that  no  greater  service  can  be  done  to 
an  elderly  lady,  I suppose.  But,  now  that  this 
little  difficulty  is  over,  and  Rosanna  disposed  of, 
when  n^y  I expect  to  hear  of  your  taking  the 
present  elect  for  better  or  for  worse?  That 
astonishment  is  well  put  on,  Lucien  ; I am  only 
asking  when  you  intend  to  get  married?” 

“ I will  never  get  married,  Madame.”  Noth- 
ing more  would  come  out. 

“ Yes  you  will — you  must,  Lucien.  Nature 
made  you  a domestic  and  family  man ; you 
never  could  live  by  and  for  yourself  alone,  as  I 
do.  Remember,  that  implies  no  deficiency  of 
character,  but  the  contrary;  all  reformers,  all 
improvers  who  have  made  any  practical  impres- 
sion on  their  times  and  on  the  world,  have  been 
of  the  same  order.  The  single  and  solitary — I 
mean  those  so  inclined,  like  myself — have  not 
sufficient  sympathy  with  their  species,  not  a 
sufficient  bond  to  them,  or  interest  in  their  well- 
being, to  take  such  trouble  and  risk.  It  is  to 
you  domestic  men  that  the  world  owes  every 
thing,  as  well  as  its  on-going.  You  will,  and 
you  must  marry,  Lucien  ; things  will  never  go 
well  with  you  till  then.  But  I know  it  will 
happen  some  day  ; and  as  I have  passed  the 
time  for  the  like,  I won’t  pry  into  your  heart’s 
secret.  Look  at  this  picture  I have  bought; 
they  tell  me  it  is  lone  looking  out  for  Paris, 
who  will  come  to  her  no  more,  for  he  has  run 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


99 


away  with  Helen  ; you  understand.  The  art- 
ist seems  to  have  caught  the  spirit  of  our  old 
mythology.” 

The  picture  to  which  she  pointed  was  that  of 
a beautiful  wood-nymph,  looking  down  a grassy 
slope  from  the  edge  of  a thick  forest.  There 
was  a perspective  of  valleys  far  below,  a flashing 
river,  and  fair  city  towers,  but  no  figure  except 
the  solitary  wood-nymph,  beautiful,  slender,  and 
light  as  the  breeze,  but  looking  down  the  val- 
leys with  a gaze  so  earnest,  and  yet  so  hopeless, 
that  the  onlooker  felt  it  was  for  one  whom  she 
could  see  no  more.  It  turned  our  conversation 
into  far  different  channels.  There  was  no  more 
of  Helen  Forbes,  the  Joyces,  Barry  or  myself,  but 
a deal  of  talk,  artistic  and  literary,  inostly  done 
by  Madame.  I had  got  a habit  of  listening ; 
perhaps  she  liked  that  best.  At  any  rate,  the 
bewilderment,  the  strangeness,  and  tumult  of 
my  inward  thoughts  passed  away  or  settled 
down.  I had  been  about  to  tell  my  secret — it 
is  an  impulse  which  seems  natural  to  man — but 
the  opportunity  passed ; it  had  not  been  done. 
In  my  sober ‘senses  I would  never  attempt  to  do 
it ; and  Madame  and  I were  back  on  our  old 
footing,  with  the  warning  mystery  still  in  the 
background,  but  no  broken  vow  to  rise  in  judg- 
ment against  me. 

“You  will  come  and  see  me  often,”  she 
said,  “ now  that  we  understand  each  other  bet- 
ter, and  you  know  that  I am  not  about  to  be- 
come the  Princess  Galatzin.  By-the-by,  it  was 
Esthers  told  that  to  the  Forbes’;  he  visits  them 
a good  deal  of  late.” 

“ I believe  they  are  more  intimate  than  they 
used  to  be.” 

“All  the  worse ; perhaps  I should  not  exactly 
say  so,  Lucien,  to  another,  but  I know  Esthers. 
He  has  been  long  in  our  employment ; my 
father  promised  my  uncle  on — on  his  death-bed, 
that  he  never  should  be  parted  with.  I feel 
bound  to  fulfill  his  promise ; otherwise,  Lucien, 
lie  might  not  be  continued  about  me  and  my 
business.  The  man  is  trustworthy,  in  the  legal 
acceptation  of  that  word,  but  he  was  born  under 
one  of  those  unlucky  stars  which  give  men  more 
craft  than  good  sense  or  good  fortune.  Esthers 
is  not  lucky  for  himself — nor  lucky  for  any  one 
who  may  be  concerned  with  him  ; and  he  has  a 
fatal  readiness  for  concerning  himself  with  other 
people’s  affairs  ; but  this  is  spoken  between  you 
and  I.”  She  laid  her  hand  on  my  shoulder, 
and  looked  me  anxiously  in  the  face.  “Was 
it  he  that  gave  you  to  understand  his  expecta- 
tions of  being  heir  to  the  Palivezi  ?” 

“No,  Madame,  I can  not  say  that  Esthers 
ever  did  so.” 

“What  led  you  to  suppose  it,  then?” 

“You  had  mentioned  that  he  was  your  cous- 
in.” 

“ He  is  my  uncle’s  illegitimate  son  ; at  least, 
Alexis  Palivez  believed  so.  I regret  the  fact, 
but  can  not  alter  it ; and,  as  I told  you,  our  in- 
heritance goes  to  the  house  of  Comenzoni. 
The  settlement  was  made  with  my  concurrence, 
or  rather  by  my  advice  ; but  Esthers  is  ignorant 


of  it,  and  I expect  that  he  will  remain  so,  for 
the  fact  has  been  mentioned  to  nobody  but  you. 

I know  you  to  be  discreet,”  she  continued,  in 
reply  to  my  declaration  that  none  of  our  pri- 
vate conversation  should  ever  be  repeated — “ I 
know  you  to  be  discreet,  or  we  should  not  be  on 
the  terms  we  are.  But  remember,  you  will 
come  and  see  me  oftener  than  you  have  done  ; 
I will  never  try  to  worm  your  secret  out ; there 
is  no  obstacle  in  your  way  to  the  altar,  now  I 
hope ; it  might  be  well  to  take  time,  lest  your 
mind  should  change  again.  You  needn’t  look 
angry  or  ashamed,  I am  not  sure  which  it  is ; 
minds  were  made  for  changing;  but  you  will 
come  and  see  me?  And  listen!  your  sister 
will  be  wondering  where  you  go  ; she  is  alone 
now,  and  will  miss  you  more — for  I expect  you 
to  come  regularly  on  the  Sunday  evenings — it 
is  due  to  her  sense  and  affection  to  tell  her 
where  you  spend  your  time.  I give  you  leave 
to  explain  the  case  exactly  as  it  stands  ; if  the 
girl  does  not  understand  it,  she  will  give  no 
trouble  on  that  subject  or  any  other;  Rhoda 
was  made  for  getting  safely  and  easily  through 
life.  Tell  her  all ; tell  her  what  a strange 
woman  I am — that  I took  a fancy  to  you,  if 
you  like,  but  not  how  you  served  me,  Lucien 
■ — not  how  you  saved  my  life.  I have  your 
promise  on  that,  and  I hold  by  it,  for  strong 
and  sad  reasons,  not  to  expose  a,  family — not  to 
have  questions  or  gossip  about  our  employed 
people ; you  are  discreet — you  will  understand 
me.” 

I did  understand ; but  it  was  as  usual,  that 
Madame  Palivez  had  something  to  conceal 
from  me  whom  she  thought  so  discreet,  and 
called  her  friend ; but  I promised  to  tell  and  to 
keep  according  as  she  directed,  and  went  home 
reconciled  to  seeing  her  in  private,  to  hearing 
half  secrets,  to  being  often  shocked  by  her  cyn- 
ical and  unanswerable  remarks,  and  being  al- 
ways charmed  and  drawn  on  like  a man  thor- 
oughly in  bondage.  The  confession  may  seem 
strange,  and  not  very  creditable  to  my  sense  or 
spirit,  but  it  is  an  honest  one,  and  the  facts  had 
extenuating,  if  not  justifying  causes.  I loved 
Madame  Palivez,  not  as  I had  loved  Rosanna 
in  the  first  and  best  days  of  our  Baltimore  ac- 
quaintance, not  as  men  love  ordinary  women, 
but  as  Thomas  the  Rhymer  may  have  loved  the 
Fairy  Queen.  She  reigned  over  my  heart  and 
mind  in  right  of  an  inherent  royalty,  often  ques- 
tioned, often  disputed,  but  never  to  be  denied. 
Whatever  the  lady  was,  or  might  have  been,  in 
an  ethical  point  of  view,  there  were  in  her  those 
imperial  elements  of  command  and  fascination 
which  make  their  possessors  leaders  and  proph- 
ets to  the  rest  of  mankind.  She  did  not  mingle 
with  my  daily  life.  I saw  hers  only  by  glimpses 
sufficient  to  show  me  how  great  was  its  differ- 
ence from  my  own.  But  all  the  thoughts  that 
rose  above  daily  work  and  care,  my  perceptions 
of  art,  of  letters,  and  of  nature,  all  went  up  to 
her;  sometimes  reflecting,  sometimes  disputing 
her  views,  but  always  occupied  with  or  about 
Madame  Palivez.  And,  therefore,  as  the  Elfin 


100 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


Queen  came  to  the  Rhymer  in  the  deep  green 
wood,  with  wondrous  wisdom  and  with  won- 
drous beauty,  telling  of  the  lovelier,  freer  life 
of  fairy-land,  so  the  charms  which  Nature  had 
bestowed  so  liberally  on  the  Grecian  lady,  the 
grandeur,  the  luxury,  the  taste  which  surround- 
ed her,  took  hold  of  my  imagination,  as  much 
as  her  intellectual  powers  subjected  my  reason. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

ESTHERS  MAKES  GOOD  HIS  FOOTING  AT  THE 
FORBES’. 

I had  some  difficulty  in  telling  my  sister  the 
part  of  the  tale  assigned  for  her  hearing.  My 
confidence  in  Rhoda’s  good  sense,  my  natural 
desire  to  hear  her  opinion  on  matters  which 
puzzled  and  half-frightened  me,  would  have 
prompted  me  to  tell  the  whole  story  of  Ma- 
dame’s  friendship,  but  that  was  forbidden ; I 
had  given  my  promise,  and,  in  spite  of  every 
good  reason  to  the  contrary,  Rhoda  must  hear 
but  a part.  That  part  xvas  necessary,  as  Bolton 
Row  no  longer  furnished  an  apology  for  my 
evenings  out,  as  Madame  had  anticipated ; did 
she  ever  forget  the  stray  end  of  any  clew  which 
curiosity  might  get  hold  of,  and  trace  out  the 
windings  of  the  labyrinth  ? It  was  my  expecta- 
tion that  Rhoda  would  be  so  exalted  at  my  pro- 
motion to  such  superior  society,  and  probably — 
with  the  hopes  which  a sister  in  her  position 
might  entertain  for  a brother  taken  into  private 
friendship  by  his  wealthy,  fair,  and  fashionable 
employer — that  all  her  discretion  ought  to  be 
enlisted  in  the  keeping  of  the  secret  from  Watt 
Wilson,  the  Masons,  and  the  rest  of  her  circle. 
But  when,  after  proper  preparation,  I unfolded 
the  fact  to  her  at  our  small  tea-table,  Rhoda 
looked  at  me  with  a long-sighted,  anxious 
glance,  laid  down  her  tea-pot,  and  said,  “Well, 
Lucien,  she  is  a great  lady,  uncommon  hand- 
some, and  very  rich ; in  course  it’s  remarkable 
good  of  her  to  take  such  a liking  to  you,  and  it 
isn’t  every  young  man  that  gets  into  such  fine 
company ; but  somehow — you’ll  not  be  angry  at 
my  saying  it,  Lucien — I would  rather  you  were 
going  any  where  else.  I have  seen  that  lady 
often  looking  at  this  house  when  she  rode  by ; 
my  aunt  that’s  gone  used  to  notice  it,  and  said 
there  was  something  strange  about  her  for  all 
her  beauty.  I dreamt  of  her  once,  coming  here 
and  taking  you  away  in  her  carriage,  but  some- 
how my  mind  told  me  it  was  for  no  good ; and 
Hannah  Clark  has  taken  to  spaeing  now,  as  all 
them  that  are  deaf  and  dumb  do  by  nature,  and 
she  always  spaes  that  you  are  to  marry  a rich 
lady,  but  she  says  there  is  blood  in  the  way 
which  you  must  step  over.” 

“Nonsense,  Rhoda,”  said  I,  but  my  hand 
shook  so  that  the  knife  I was  cutting  bread 
with  fell  out  of  it ; “ Hannah  Clark  knows  no 
more  about  the  future  than  you  do ; and  as  for 
marrying  a rich  lady,  I have  no  chance  of  that. 
Madame  Palivez  has  taken  a fancy  to  talk  with 


me  in  her  leisure  evenings ; being  a clerk  in  her 
bank,  it  is  prudent  and  suitable  for  me  to  serve 
and  please  the  lady ; but  when  she  thinks  of 
changing  her  condition — which  Madame  says 
she  never  will — there  are  Russian  princes  and 
English  dukes  who  would  not  be  too  high 
matches  for  the  heiress  of  the  great  house  of 
Palivez.’’ 

“ In  course,  Lucien,  it  may  be  all  nonsense  I 
am  thinking,  but  you’ll  allow  it  isn’t  every  day 
that  a great  lady  takes  such  fancies  for  talking 
with  a young  man  in  such  a confident  way.  I’ll 
warrant  it  is  all  friendship,  and  very  prudent 
and  suitable,  as  you  say,  to  serve  and  please 
her ; it  may  get  you  on  in  the  bank  to  be  head 
clerk,  or  more  ; but,  Lucien,  if  she  ever  wants 
you  to  do  any  thing  not  right  or  honest — mind, 
I don’t  say  she  will,  but  the  like  has  happened, 
and  the  business  is  strange — just  remember  that 
the  friendship  of  God  is  more  worth  than  the 
love  of  any  ’arthly  lady,  however  rich  or  hand- 
some she  may  be.” 

I assured  Rhoda  there  was  no  danger  of  my 
being  wanted  to  do  any  thing  not  right  or  hon- 
est ; Madame  had  means  enough  to  bribe  more 
ready  hands  if  she  required  any  such  service. 
We  had  no  right  to  think  ill  of  any  person  who 
had  not  shown  themselves  ill  inclined,  merely 
because  their  ways  or  humors  were  unlike  our 
own.  Madame  Palivez  was  peculiar,  but  very 
sensible,  and  of  great  learning;  we  must  remem- 
ber, too,  that  she  was  of  foreign  birth  and  breed- 
ing; but  all  the  world  knew  how  upright  and 
honorable  the  dealings  of  the  Palivez  had  al- 
ways been  ; her  name  and  fame  stood  as  high  as 
those  of  her  ancestors ; as  for  her  fancy  to  see 
me  on  spare  evenings,  it  was  but  the  whim  of  a 
lady  of  fashion,  tired  of  gay  company  and  the 
whirl  of  West  End  life ; it  probably  would  not 
last  long,  and  the  wisest  thing  we  could  do  was 
to  keep  the  matter  between  ourselves,  that  people 
might  not  misunderstand  or  make  a tale  about  it. 
Rhoda  saw  the  wisdom  of  those  conclusions,  and 
seemed  reasoned  out  of  her  own  sinister  impres- 
sions, but  her  words  went  with  me  in  my  go- 
ings to  Broad  Street,  mingled  with  the  vainly- 
guessed-at  mystery  which  enveloped  the  lady  of 
the  bank  ; and  Hannah  Clark’s  spaeing  of  the 
rich  marriage,  and  the  blood  that  was  to  be 
stepped  over,  would  come,  till  I got  ashamed  of 
thinking  so  superstitiously.  But  time  went  on 
its  course,  and  I went  on  mine — to  Notting  Hill 
House  on  Saturday  evenings,  to  Rhoda  all  the 
rest  of  the  week,  and  to  the  back  rooms  behind 
the  bank  as  sure  as  the  Sunday  twilight  fell. 
Those  were  the  hours  looked  for  and  counted 
on  out  of  all  the  seven  days — the  time  I lived 
and  thought  for;  the  sayings,  doings,  and  glances 
that  passed  in  them  occupied  me  over  ledger  and 
account  book — at  the  fireside,  where  my  sister 
sat  opposite  mending  stockings ; in  Notting  Hill 
House,  where  Helen  played  and  sang,  and  her 
father  talked  of  business  and  his  growing  friend- 
ship with  Esthers. 

“We  have  great  hopes  of  his  becoming  a 
Christian,”  said  Helen,  one  evening,  when  we 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


101 


happened  to  get  on  the  subject  of  my  manager. 
•‘Don’t  you  think  we  may  entertain  something 
of  the  kind  ? He  comes  here  regularly  on  Sun- 
day evenings ; papa  does  not  like  to  receive  peo- 
ple on  Sundays,  but  Saturday  is  the  Jewish  Sab- 
bath, and  he  has  no  other  time,  so  we  thought  it 
the  best  arrangement,  and  Mr.  Esthers  has  quite 
fallen  into  our  ways ; he  reads  sermons  beauti- 
fully, and  is  certainly  getting  over  his  prejudices; 
papa  was  quite  struck  with  his  borrowing  the 
proof  catechism,  and  he  has  promised  to  read 
through  the  Westminster  Confession,  and  search 
the  Scriptures  for  himself.” 

I thought  of  Madame’s  observations  as  she 
spoke ; the  gentle,  pious  Helen  was,  like  other 
good  people,  easily  deceived  or  flattered  through 
their  favorite  opinions,  but  I knew  the  manager, 
well  enough  to  be  aware  that  his  going  to  Not- 
ting  Hill  House  regularly  on  Sundays,  reading 
sermons  beautifully,  borrowing  the  proof  cate- 
chism, and  giving  them  great  hopes  of  him, 
was  not  without  substantial  motives.  Esthers 
might  get  converted,  but  he  was  steering  on  a 
different  tack,  and  I thought  it  but  fair  and  hon- 
est to  give  my  friends  something  of  a warning. 

‘ 4 If  Esthers  has  taken  so  strongly  to  religion, 
it  is  not  what  I should  expect  of  him ; his  re- 
gard for  it,  Christian  or  Jewish,  \yas  never  con- 
siderable; for  all  the  time  he  spends  in  the  syn- 
agogue on  Saturday,  there  would  be  plenty  for 
him  to  come  here ; in  short,  Miss  Forbes,  it  may 
not  be  charitable,  but  I can’t  help  suspecting 
Esthers’  seriousness ; he  is  cunning  by  nature, 
and  may  have  some  motive  for  pleasing  you  and 
your  papa.” 

The  last  of  my  words  were  not  well  chosen  ; 
they  smote  on  Helen’s  pride  : the  serious  young 
lady  had  some,  though  of  a quiet,  unobtrusive 
kind. 

“I  should  be  sorry,  Mr.  La  Touche,  to  pass 
such  a judgment  on  one  who  appears  to  be  seek- 
ing for  truth.  Mr.  Esthers  has  shown  himself 
very  friendly  to  papa  in  the  way  of  business, 
very  sensible  and  well  inclined  in  his  conversa- 
tion with  us ; he  may  be  cunning,  as  you  say, 
for  of  course  you  know  him  best,  but  it  is  not 
permitted  for  us  to  search  into  motives  which 
have  not  been  shown ; and  if  we  can  be  the 
humble  instruments  of  directing  him  to  the  true 
light,  it  is  an  opportunity  which  no  Christian 
should  lose,”  and  Helen  looked  at  me  in  the  ad- 
monishing manner  with  which  she  used  to  look 
at  Charles  Barry. 

I did  not  venture  any  farther  remonstrance  ; 
Esthers  had  made  his  footing  good;  I had  noth- 
ing tangible  to  allege  against  him  to  father  or 
daughter ; there  was  evidently  a change  in  the 
mind  of  the  latter  since  she  thought  it  unchar- 
itable and  very  wrong,  but  did  not  like  the 
manager.  Yet  it  was  Helen’s  pious  prejudices, 
her  philanthropy,  perhaps  her  spiritual  pride, 
that  were  enlisted,  and  not  her  fancy  or  her 
feelings.  Some  farther  attempts  at  putting  the 
Forbes’  on  their  guard,  which  I made  with 
equally  small  success,  satisfied  me  that  I might 
be  misunderstood,  and  probably  disliked  for  my 


pains.  But  nothing  could  be  done  in  the  way 
of  moving  Esthers  out  of  their  good  graces.  As 
for  him,  he  neither  blazoned  his  triumph  nor 
made  a secret  of  the  intimacy.  Having  always 
given  me  to  understand  that  he  was  an  old  and 
familiar  acquaintance  of  the  family,  he  spoke 
of  them  now  as  he  had  ever  done : there  was 
the  same  smirk  at  the  mention  of  Helen,  the 
same  friendly  knowingness  regarding  her  father 
— in  short,  Mr.  Esthers  was  au  fait  in  every 
thing  about  them  except  my  goings  to  Notting 
Hill  House,  which  he  utterly  ignored  and  passed 
over  as  something  which  ought  not  to  exist. 
My  visits  to  the  back  rooms  in  Broad  Street 
would  have  been  more  against  his  mind  had 
Esthers  been  aware  of  them.  That  was  plain 
to  me,  though  I never  could  say  how  it  became 
so.  He  never  spoke  of  Madame  Palivez,  even 
in  bqsiness  matters,  if  it  were  possible  to  avoid 
the  subject.  She  rarely  spoke  of  him,  and  never 
expressly  warned  me  against  letting  the  man- 
ager know  of  our  private  association ; but  the 
same  instinct  or  perception  by  which  I discov- 
ered his  wish  to  keep  us  strangers,  also  made 
me  aware  of  her  anxiety  to  keep  our  friendship 
a secret  from  the  manager.  Being  loyal  to  her 
and  our  singular  compact,  I took  all  possible 
precautions  not  to  be  seen  or  heard  tell  of  in 
my  Sunday  goings,  and  rather  acquiesced  in 
the  favor  Esthers  had  found  at  Notting  Hill 
House,  as  it  took  him  so  far  out  of  the  way. 

* f 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

SALLY  AGAIN. 

The  Sundays  came  and  went,  and  my  time 
was  reckoned  by  them,  for  their  evenings  took 
me  to  Madame  Palivez.  Many  a discussion  we 
had,  many  a long  and  friendly  talk  of  things  on 
which  our  views  happened  to  agree,  and  I 
thought  the  number  of  them  increased  every 
day.  We  were  certainly  becoming  friends  in 
the  best  sense  of  that  term  ; her  superior  knowl- 
edge— which  had  a range  of  arts  and  letters 
wider  than  that  of  any  mind  with  which  mine 
had  ever  come  in  contact — her  large  experience 
of  the  world  in  business  and  society,  her  fine 
perceptions,  clear  judgment,  and  native  wit, 
made  Madame  instructive  and  entertaining  com- 
pany for  any  young  man  with  a brain.  Mine 
was  given  up  to  her ; even  where  our  opinions 
differed  farthest,  I felt  my  mind  sliding  away 
into  her  views  imperceptibly  ; finding  her  argu- 
ments not  to  be  answered,  I began  to  accept 
them,  however  contrary  to  my  early  education 
or  my  best  convictions.  An  hour’s  conversation 
with  Madame  on  any  moral  question  sent  me 
home  doubting  every  thing  that  I had  believed 
or  hoped  in,  and  every  day  made  her  appear  to 
be  more  in  the  right,  and  myself  more  her  disci- 
ple. I know  now,  and  knew  then,  in  my  wiser 
moments,  which,  indeed,  were  growing  fewer, 
that  it  was  the  man’s  folly  and  not  the  man’s 
reason  on  which  her  teaching  had  power.  We 


102 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


were  growing  good  friends  ; she  called  me  noth- 
ing but  Lucien : she  told  me  passages  of  her 
early  travels,  of  her  education,  which  had  been 
at  a Greek  convent  on  the  shores  of  the  Black 
Sea — I think  it  was  in  the  Crimea,  though  Ma- 
dame never  named  the  locality  — and  gave  me 
accounts  of  more  than  one  formal  proposal  for 
heart  and  hand  made  by  Russian  nobles  and 
Greek  bankers.  The  disclosures  were  generally 
by  way  of  illustrating  some  phase  of  life  or  char- 
acter of  which  we  happened  to  converse.  They 
were  always  free  and  easy;  Madame  had  no 
special  interest  in  any  affair  of  the  kind  of  which 
I was  permitted  to  hear ; she  had  told  me  I was 
her  first  and  only  friend,  and  gradually  the 
foolish  hope  began  to  take  possession  of  me  that 
I might  be  something  more. 

It  was  not  the  fashion  of  Mayfair  or  the 
wealth  of  Broad  Street  that  glittered  in  mj  eyes 
and  dazzled  them ; as  I have  already  said,  it  was 
the  Avoman  herself  that  led  me  captive.  Apart 
from  her  position  and  surroundings,  Madame 
Palivez  would  have  been  the  same  to  my  heart 
and  memory.  In  the  midst  of  her  luxurious* 
apartments,  with  so  maqy  objects  of  art  and  taste 
about  her,  so  many  evidences  of  princely  fortune, 
and  the  use  and  wont  of  it,  I could  imagine  her 
disencumbered  of  all,  with  no  possession  but  her 
knowledge,  her  talents,  and  her  beauty,  and  my- 
self as  deeply  devoted  to  her  service  as  ever. 
There  were  times  Avhen  I left  her,  smiling  good- 
night, Avith  the  firm  clasp  of  her  snoAvy  hand  still 
tingling  in  my  OAvn — when  I paused  in  the  silent 
lamplit  street,  and  wished  from  the  depths  of  my 
heart — or  my  folly — that  some  turn  of  Fortune’s 
wheel  might  send  the  Palivez  bank  to  what  my 
American  friends  used  to  call  eternal  smash, 
that  I might  thereby  have  the  chance  of  showing 
its  fair  and  proud  lady  hoAv  truly  I Avas  her 
servant.  I could  have  said,  in  that  case,  what 
could  never  be  uttered  while  I Avas  the  English 
clerk  and  she  Avas  the  head  of  that  great  house ; 
my  pride,  my  spirit,  my  sense  of  all  that  was 
honorable,  made  me  lock  up  that  secret  in  my 
breast.  Madame  Palivez  had  chosen  me  for  her 
private  friend,  received  me  alone,  talked  Avith 
me  freely  and  familiarly,  but  never  gave  me  the 
slightest  reason  to  imagine  that  she  entertained 
any  warmer  feeling.  To  one  so  clear,  keen,  and 
not  over-charitable  in  her  judgment  of  men  and 
motives,  would  it  be  possible  to  show  my  heart 
and  not  be  suspected  of  a selfish  design  ? 

That  alone  was  sufficient  to  keep  me  silent 
and  discreet;  I would  not  have  incurred  her 
contempt  for  the  world’s  wealth,  and  she  had 
manifestly  come  to  some  conclusion  in  her  own 
mind  regarding  my  inconstancy  to  Rosanna,  for 
she  never  returned  to  the  subject,  nor  showed 
any  curiosity  on  the  point  of  my  second  choice. 

Perhaps  it  had  slipped  out  of  her  mind  with 
bank  affairs  or  some  Aveighty  considerations  which 
seemed-  to  be  pressing  on  her  as  the  year  wore 
toward  Christmas.  I observed  her  looking  more 
grave  and  preoccupied  at  times  when  I entered. 
In  the  midst  of  our  conversation  she  would  fall 
into  a brown,  or  rather  black  study.  Whatever 


Avas  the  subject,  it  seemed  to  be  a dark  one,  and 
there  were  occasions  when  I thought,  from  her 
look  and  manner,  that  she  had  something  par- 
ticular to  say,  which  was  ahvays  put  back  and 
never  said.  Could  it  be  that  Fortune  had  heard 
my  foolish  prayers?  Had  things  gone  vitally 
wrong  Avith  the  bank,  and  was  Madame  getting 
into  difficulties?  Every  body  Avho  ought  to 
know,  and  whom  I covertly  examined  — Mr. 
Forbes,  Watt  Wilson,  and  other  competent  au- 
thorities— assured  me  that  the  house  of  Palivez 
was  in  a most  prosperous  condition.  Madame 
was  the  queen  of  business,  and  nothing  could 
exceed  the  safe  and  profitable  conduct  of  her  af- 
fairs. Yet  she  looked  unaccountably  troubled, 
and  particularly  so  one  Sunday  evening  toward 
the  end  of  December.  It  was  a season  that  used 
to  come  with  sad  and  serious  memories  to  my- 
self at  the  Baltimore  school  and  in  my  uncle’s 
counting-house.  They  came  to  Rhoda  still,  and 
to  me,  when  I sat  Avith  her  by  our  quiet  fireside 
on  the  outskirts  of  London,  for  at  that  period  of 
the  year  ruin  had  fallen  on  our  old  house  in  Ar- 
magh through  the  yet  unexplained  disappear- 
ance of  our  elder  brother.  Well,  Madame  had 
been  grave,  thoughtful,  and  restless  that  even- 
ing, and  Avhen  I rose  to  bid  good-night,  she  said, 
“Lucien,  this  day  week  will  be  Christmas  Eve, 
according  to  your  Latin  computation.  I have 
private  reasons  for  retiring  to  my  villa  then. 
Many  a year  has  passed  since  I received  any 
one  on  that  day,  but  I will  receive  you  if  you 
come” — what  a softened,  confiding  look  there 
was  in  her  eyes!  — “but  remember,  you  may 
not  find  me  the  best  of  company.  There  are 
recollections  that  come  to  me  with  the  anniver- 
saries of  family  events,  and  make  one  think  of 
the  Pandora’s  box,  with  no  hope  at  the  bottom 
of  it.” 

“You  are  always  the  best  of  company,  Ma- 
dame, and  I’ll  come  if  you  allow  me.”  I would 
have  said  more,  but  she  stopped  me  with, 
“ Come,  then,  my  flattering  friend  ; but  I have 
Avarned  you,  and  you  won’t  be  surprised  if  I am 
not  quite  myself  next  Sunday.  I know  you  have 
sense  enough  for  that,  Lucien  and  Madame 
dismissed  me  with  a kind  but  hasty  good-night. 

The  hour  was  earlier  than  usual ; to  say  the' 
truth,  my  visits  to  Broad  Street  were  generally 
prolonged  late  enough,  but  it  was  not  yet  eleven 
by  the  clock.  The  night  was  clear  and  frosty, 
and  I took  a sort  of  circuit  home  by  way  of 
thinking  over  what  had  passed  in  the  back 
rooms,  and  composing  my  own  mind.  What 
Avere  the  family  events  she  had  to.  recollect  at 
the  very  same  season  of  the  year  which  brought 
such  strange  and  sad  remembrances  to  myself 
and  sister  ? They  must  have  been  of  a similar 
character,  if  not  still  darker  and  more  fearful 
than  our  own.  There  were  shadows  of  strange 
terror  passing  over  her  face  Avhen  she  spoke  of 
them,  and  nobody  had  been  received  on  their 
anniversaries  for  many  a .year.  I was  thinking 
the  matter  over,  and  pacing  slowly  through 
Berkeley  Square.  Its  aristocratic  quiet  made  it 
a suitable  place  for  such  a study.  There  were 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


103 


few  lights  in  the  shut-up  houses  of  the  absent 
fashionables  who  then  resided  there.  There 
was  nobody  to  be  seen  or  heard  but  the  watch- 
men, who  still  went  their  rounds  and  called  the 
hour,  when  a shrill,  sharp  voice,  keeping  up  a 
continuous  fire  of  quarrelsome  discourse,  came 
along  the  Square  behind  me,  and,  turning  under 
the  nearest  lamp,  I recognized  in  a tired-looking, 
battered  group,  Sally  Joyce,  with  Jeremy,  and 
Mrs.  Barry.  My  once  intended  sister-in-law 
was  scolding  with  more  than  common  ardor. 
They  had  been  out  for  the  day’s  pleasure,  missed 
the  early  returning  boats,  had  to  wait  for  the 
latest,  got  into  a quarrel  with  the  hackney- 
coachman  who  was  driving  them  home,  alighted 
in  consequence,  and  were  now  walking  the  rest 
of  the  distance.  I learned  all  that  from  Sally’s 
lecture.  She  was  explicit  on  the  facts,  and  also 
on  their  having  run  to  their  last  penny,  and 
never  being  able  to  get  on  in  this  fashion,  if 
those  that  had  a right  did  not  do  something  for 
them ; but  nobody  need  think  she  would  be 
boxed  off  into  the  country.  As  Miss  Joyce 
came  nearer,  I discovered  what  seemed  to  be  a 
new  feature  of  her  practice.  She  had  had  re- 
course to  something  stronger  than  tea  by  way 
of  supporting  her  spirits  under  the  afflictions  of 
the  evening.  Was  the  constitutionally  trouble- 
some lady  following  her  mother’s  example,  as 
chronicled  by  Madame  Palivez  ? But  they  were 
coming  nearer.  I did  not  wish  to  meet,  yet 
there  was  no  being  able  to  avoid  them  without 
appearing  to  do  so,  which  was  beneath  my  dig- 
nity, so  I walked  quietly  on  in  hopes  that  they 
would  have  the  sense  to  pass  me  in  silence.  I 
was  already  recognized  by  the  lamplight.  I saw 
Hosanna  shrinking  back,  exactly  as  she  had  done 
by  my  side  at  the  sight  of  Charles  Barry.  Jere- 
my also  lingered  behind;  but  the  elder  sister, 
as  if  seized  by  a sudden  inspiration  for  mischief, 
dashed  right  in  front  of  me,  crying,  “ Good- 
evening to  you,  Mr.  La  Touche.  You  are  late 
going  home  on  a Sunday  evening,  and  out  of 
your  way,  too ; but  I suppose  you  have  been  in 
Curzo'n  Street,  though  the  house  is  kept  closed 
and  dark,  to  make  people  believe  she  is  out  of 
town.”  The  words  made  me  start  back.  Was 
Sally  Joyce,  then,  aware  of  my  secret  visits  to 
Madame  Palivez  ? Well,  I knew  it  was  nothing 
but  the  stimulus  she  had  taken  that  made  her 
betray  that  knowledge  so  openly.  It  had  over- 
come the  native  cunning  of  Esthers’  half-sister, 
and  given  the  loose  rein  to  all  her  love  of  med- 
dling and  importance.  “Ha,  ha!”  she  con- 
tinued, with  a malicious  giggle,  “ you  see  I 
know  it  all.  She  wants  to  get  me  boxed  off  to 
the  country,  but  I won’t  go.  I’ll  stay  in  London, 
and  in  Mayfair — fashionable  society  is  necessary 
to  my  health  and  spirits.  I won’t  smother  my- 
self in  a dull  corner  for  her,  and  the  secrets  she 
wants  kept.  Let  her  pay  for  the  keeping  of 
them,  I say;  she  is  rich.  What  does  she  mean, 
I’d  like  to  know,  putting  us  off  with  that  paltry 
annuity  ? Tell  her  I can’t  live  on  it.  I must 
get  something  decent,  or  I’ll  let  the  world  hear 
what  I know  about  her.” 


“ Allow  me  to  pass,  Miss  Joyce.  I wish  to 
have  no  conversation  with  you,  or  any  of  your 
family.” 

“Oh,  you  don’t!” — and  she  stepped  more 
directly  before  me — “ you  have  got  too  grand  for 
us  since  she  took  you  in  hand ; but  you  needn’t 
think  you  are  going  to  get  her  and  her  bank.  It 
is  only  just  to  pass  the  time  she  minds  you  at  all ; 
but  tell  her  what  I said.” 

“ I will  tell  her  nothing  of  the  kind,”  and  I 
stepped  quickly  by;  but  Sally  had  seized  the 
skirt  of  my  coat,  and,  thrusting  forward  her 
face  with  an  indescribable  grin  of  insane  malice, 
she  said,  in  a hissing  whisper,  ‘ 1 Tell  her  to  rec- 
ollect Christmas  Eve,  and  what  happened  on  it 
in  Dublin.” 

I disengaged  myself  with  a sudden  spring, 
darted  across  the  Square,  and  left  her  calling  to 
Jeremy  and  Rosanna  to  come  along,  for  it  was 
not  respectable  to  be  so  late  out. 

All  the  way  home,  the  words  hissed  out  be- 
tween Sally’s  teeth  sounded  in  my  ears,  and 
shook  my  mind  with  a tempest  of  thoughts : 
“Tell  her  to  recollect  Christmas  Eve,  and 
what  happened  on  it  in  Dublin.”  The  look 
with  which  they  were  spoken  was  insane  as  well 
as  malicious ; yet  there  must  have  been  a terri- 
ble meaning  in  them.  They  had  to  do  with 
the  family  events  which  made  Madame  retire  to 
her  villa,  and  receive  no  one  for  so  many  years 
except  myself,  whom  she  had  partly  asked  to 
come.  Had  Esthers  made  a half  discovery,  or 
had  Sally’s  own  crazed  mind,  in  its  excitement, 
hit  on  the  subject  of  my  secret  visits,  though 
not  on  their  true  localities  ? There  were  en- 
deavors being  made  to  get  her  out  of  London.  I 
remembered  the  allusion  to  a well-managed  pri- 
vate asylum.  There  must  be — there  were  mo- 
tives for  such  an  anxiety  to  put  her  out  of  the 
wa/5  it  was  not  all  madness  nor  malice.  Sally 
knew  more  than  was  safe  for  the  lady  of  the 
bank ; but  how  could  I mention  the  subject  to 
Madame  ? Yet  it  was  a friend’s  part  to  warn 
her  against  Sally’s  tongue  ; it  could  speak  out  to 
others  under  the  same  influence.  But  Madame 
had  not  chosen  to  trust  me  even  with  the  exist- 
ence of  her  secret.  She  had  allowed  me  to 
know  that  her  life  had  dark  places — that  her 
memory  had  some  heavy  burden,  and  her  days 
some  clouds  of  fear  ; but  she  had  studiously  en- 
deavored to  keep  me  in  the  dark  with  regard  to 
her  interest  in  the  Joyces.  It  was  only  for  their 
own  sakes  that  she  took  any  notice  of  their 
family  concerns  ; and  might  not  I be  considered 
prying  or  meddling  if  I appeared  to  know  the 
contrary?  might  I not  get  mixed  up  and  set 
down  with  the  Joyces  by  entering  on  the  subject 
at  all  ? Then  came  the  stranger,  blacker 
thoughts,  not  to  be  put  in  any  form  of  words, 
but  they  regarded  my  family’s  ruin  and  the 
long-lost  Raymond.  “ Tell  her  to  recollect 
Christmas  Eve,  and  what  happened  in  Dublin  ;” 
the  time  was  a few  days  later  than  his  disap- 
pearance eighteen  years  ago.  How  long  had 
Madame  received  nobody,  and  retired  to  her 
most  private  retreat  on  Christmas  Eve  ? The 


104 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


idea  was  not  to  be  entertained  ; I shook  it  oil 
as  one  awakening  shakes  off  nightmare,  and 
sped  home  to  No.  9.  But  all  night  long  the  far 
past  time  of  trouble  was  mingling  with  the 
scenes  and  people  of  the  present,  inexplicably 
and  impossibly,  as  things  blend  in  dreams.  We 
were  all  at  home  again  in  our  old  house  at 
Armagh — father,  mother,  and  young  sisters  so 
long  dead  and  gone,  and  Miss  Livy,  whom  I had 
laid  down  in  the  Hammersmith  church-yard — all 
waiting  for  Raymond’s  home-coming  that  Sun- 
day night ; and  the  Palivez  bank  in  Broad 
Street  had  somehow  got  next  door.  I was  in 
its  splendid  back  rooms;  Madame  was  making 
the  compact  with  me,  but  Mr.  Forbes  and  Mel- 
rose Morton  were  witnesses ; and  Sally  Joyce 
looked  in  through  the  myrtles  and  orange-trees 
of  the  conservatory  with  the  yery  same  look  she 
had  given  me  in  Berkeley  Square,  and  some- 
body came  through  the  shrubs  behind  her, 
whom  I knew  to  be  my  brother  Raymond. 

All  the  week  I puzzled  myself  whether  I 
should  tell  Madame  of  Sally’s  talk  or  not. 
Could  I have  mentioned  the  matter  to  Rhoda, 
there  might  have  been  help  in  her  sound  sense 
and  honest  counsel ; but  my  sister  had  a sort  of 
superstition  against  Madame  Palivez.  It  could 
be  nothing  else,  for  she  had  no  knowledge  of 
all  that  surprised  and  puzzled  me  about  the  lady  ; 
but  Rhoda  had  dreamt  about  her  brother  being 
taken  away,  and  for  no  good.  She  had  wished 
I was  going  any  where  else,  and  warned  me 
against  being  wanted  to  do  any  tiling  that  was 
not  right.  If  I mentioned  the  interview  with 
Sally,  her  suspicions  would  take  the  shape  my 
own  thoughts  had  taken  ; Rhoda  would  come  at 
once  to  conclusions  which,  besides  being  improb- 
able, were  intolerable  to  my  mind.  My  own 
secret  would  be  in  danger  of  coming  out ; I 
could  not  trust  even  my  sister  with  it,  much  less 
with  that  which  concerned  Madame.  However 
the  latter  had  chosen  to  conceal  her  transac- 
tions with  the  Joyces  from  me,  it  was  neither 
loyal  nor  honest  to  withhold  the  warning. 
How  best  to  avoid  the  appearance  of  ferreting 
out  was  the  difficulty,  chiefly  because  I would 
have  given  the  world,  had  it  been  mine,  to  find 
the  very  blackest  bottom  of  the  secret — for 
black  I knew  it  must  be — and  there  seemed  a 
chance  of  coming  to  it  now ; so,  after  long  de- 
liberation, .1  resolved  to  let  things  take  their 
course,  and  find  some  fitting  opportunity  and 
suitable  manner  of  intimating  the  fact. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

A NIGHT  OP  MYSTERY. 

On  Sunday  night,  according  to  appointment, 
I made  my  way  to  the  villa,  through  a dull, 
misty  evening,  breezeless,  and  heavy  with 
threatening  rain ; it  was  some  time  after  dark, 
my  sister  and  Hannah  Clark  had  gone  to 
chapel ; I saw  the  lights  in  Notting  Hill  House 
as  I passed  by  the  path  up  the  stream  ; Est- 


hers was  there,  but  could  learn  nothing  of  my 
goings  through  the  outer  darkness,  and  it  was 
the  same  day  of  the  year  in  which  I sat  in  the 
Greek  coffee-house  and  heard  Watt  Wilson  re- 
late the  strange  tale  of  my  family  to  him. 
Now  I was  going  to  visit  his  lady-superior,  the 
heiress  of  all  the  Palivez,  in  the  solemn  retire- 
ment of  her  villa,  to  which  the  remembrance  of 
family  events  made  her  retreat  on  Christmas 
Eve.  What  a dreary  and  desolate  hermitage 
the  place  looked  when  I reached  it  in  the 
midst  of  the  wintry  woodland  ! How  different 
from  its  summer  aspect  was  the  solitary  foreign- 
looking  house,  on  which  the  full  moon  now 
shone  out  with  a red  and  lurid  light  through 
the  heavy  mist,  standing  there  in  the  midst  of 
the  damp  gray  hollow,  overshadowed  by  leaf- 
less trees  and  sombre  evergreens,  its  roses  and 
jessamine  gone,  its  windows  shut  up  so  close 
that  no  light  of  fire  or  candle  was  to  be  seen, 
and  not  a sound  in  or  about  it  but  a low  hol- 
low moan  of  waking  winds,  or  far-off  waters  in 
the  heart  of  the  old  park  ! I tried  my  key,  and 
the  garden  gate  opened,  as  the  door  in  the 
church-yard  wall  had  done  ; but  some  signal  of 
my  coming  was  given  within — a bell  seemed  to 
tinkle,  then  the  door  was  softly  opened,  old 
Marco  appeared  with  a lantern  in  his  hand, 
and  in  accustomed  silence  conducted  me  to 
the  upper  room,  where  I found  her  sitting  at 
my  last  visit  in  that  sweet  summer  evening. 
She  sat  there  now,  but  the  summer  was  gone 
from  it  and  from  her,  and  I started  in  amaze- 
ment to  see  the  whole  apartment  hung  with 
deep  black  cloth,  which  covered  Walls  and  furni- 
ture, in  the  fashion  of  ancient  mourning,  and 
Madame  herself  in  a robe  of  the  same  sombre 
hue,  without  relief  or  ornament,  her  long  hair 
falling  loose  on  her  shoulders,  and  her  face  so 
strangely  altered  that  years  of  watching  or  of 
sorrow  seemed  to  have  passed  over  it  since  I 
saw  it  last.  It  might  have  been  the  unusual 
dress,  the  surrounding  black,  and  the  peculiar 
light,  which  shone  faintly  and  fitfully  from  a 
lamp  in  the  form  of  those  which  burned  in 
ancient  sepulchres ; but  the  effect  was  extra- 
ordinary. I should  have  known  her  under  any 
circumstances,  yet  never  could  have  believed 
that  woman  would  alter  so  far. 

“ Welcome,  my  friend,”  she  said,  kindly,  but 
there  was  no  smile ; “you  are  surprised  to  see 
me  and  my  house  in  mourning?  they  have 
been  so,  for  many  a year  upon  this  day ; as  I 
told  you,  it  is  an  anniversary  which  must  re- 
turn ; why  can  not  such  days  be  blotted  out  and 
erased  from  the  calendar  ? Perhaps  because 
all  the  days  would  go  in  that  case,  for  most 
people  have  got  some  of  the  kind.  You  looked 
frightened,  Lucien  ; does  a mass  of  black  and 
a faint  light  make  me  and  my  place  so  strange 
to  you  ? No,  I am  aware  it  does  not ; you 
were  only  surprised,  not  prepared,  perhaps  ; but 
sit  down  ; you  are  the  first  that  ever  shared 
my  mourning  ; that  early  example  of  Job’s 
friends  might  keep  one  from  sharing  the  like,  if 
it  were  not  often  enough  repeated  in  the  world.” 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


105 


I acknowledged  my  surprise,  and  tried  to 
keep  clear  of  seeming  curious  about  -the  family 
events.  She  passed  at  once  from  the  subject 
to  that  of  mourning  in  general.  What  a 
knowledge  she  had  of  the  various  forms  and 
ceremonies  by  which  the  tribes  of  men  express 
their  woe  in  different  climes  and  ages ! Her 
own  robe  was  made  after  the  fashion  of  the 
mourning  mantle  which  the  Spartan  mothers 
put  on  when  their  sons  returned  from  a lost  bat- 
tle, and  Demosthenes  assumed  when  the  Athe- 
nians would  not  go  to  war  with  Philip  of  Mace- 
don.  So  Madame  told  me,  and  I believed  it, 
and  all  our  talk  was  of  sombre  subjects.  Din- 
ner was  served  in  another  room  as  darkly 
draped ; all  the  table  furnishings  were  ebony, 
and  the  dishes  were  those  of  the  strict  Greek 
Lent,  “as  pious  old-fashioned  people  keep  it 
in  Moscow  and  Kioff,”  said  Madame,  “as  we 
Greeks  of  the  Byzantine  strain  have  been  ac- 
customed to  keep  it  in  days  of  mourning  ever 
since  the  Eastern  Church  was  founded.” 

She  was  not  melancholy  or  out  of  spirits 
that  evening,  but  grave  and  serious  as  the 
Forbes’  themselves  could  be ; but  her  wider 
range  of  thought,  larger  knowledge,  and  more 
free  and  fearless  nature  allowed  no  shadow  of 
dullness  to  fall  upon  our  converse.  We  talked 
gravely  and  familiarly.  She  told  me  a good 
deal  about  old  Greek  and  Tartar  customs  as 
they  meet  and  mingle  in  Eastern  Russia,  the 
ancient  seat  of  her  family;  about  towers  and 
castles  there,  unknown  to  my  historical  read- 
ing ; about  convents,  churches,  and  sepulchres, 
where  the  Tartar  prince  and  the  Greek  mer- 
chant seem  to  have  equal  rights  and  distinc- 
tions before  and  since  the  Muscovite  was  lord 
in  that  quarter,  but  never  a word  did  she  say 
regarding  the  anniversary  or  the  cause  of  its 
heavy  mourning.  The  hours  always  flew 
quickly  in  her  company.  I had  been  watch- 
ing for  an  opportunity  to  introduce  the  subject 
of  Sally  Joyce,  but  none  being  found,  it  al- 
most slipped  out  of  my  memory  in  the  mul- 
tiplicity of  our  topics.  I think  the  last  had 
been  something  about  Ivan  the  Terrible  and  his 
conquest  of  Kazan — it  was  a theme  she  often 
happened  on,  when  all  at  once  Madame  sub- 
sided into  silent  thought,  which  I did  not  ven- 
ture to  disturb  till  she  lifted  her  eyes  which 
had  been  resting  on  the  black  carpet,  and  said, 
“Lucien,  whether  is  it  better  to  banish  from 
one’s  mind  and  sight  all  traces  of  a great  ir- 
recoverable calamity,  or  to  keep  some  solemn 
memorial  and  commemoration  of  it  by  way  of 
tribute,  paid  for  all  tbe  rest  of  one’s  days?” 

“I  can  not  tell,  Madame;  but  it  seems  to 
me  that  what  Lady  Macbeth  said  was  wise : 
‘things  without  remedy  should  be  without  re- 
gard.’ ” 

“Yes ; but  she  could  not  act  upon  the  wis- 
dom— witness  the  sleep-walking  and  the  washing 
of  her  hands.  Shakspeare  showed  himself  a 
great  poet  there  ; memory  or  conscience — they 
are  the  same  thing,  my  friend,  in  spite  of  mor- 
alists and  metaphysicians — will  have  its  own  : 


there  is  no  real  forgetting  short  ©f  that  blessed 
Lethe  in  which  my  ancestors  believed ; sacrifices 
must  be  offered  to  the  dead  of  men  and  of  days, 
or  they  will  haunt  us.  Did  you  never  find  that 
out  regarding  the  losses  or  misfortunes  of  your 
own  life  ? Is  it  not  needful  to  take  them  into 
consideration  at  times,  to  give  them  certain 
hours  set  apart  to  their  service,  and,  as  it  were, 
worship  from  the  better  present,  that  so  they 
may  not  intrude  their  memory  into  it,  and  take 
up  too  much  space  in  the  world  within  ?” 

“ My  experience  is  not  sufficient  to  say  cor- 
rectly ; it  may  be  the  case  in  matters  like  those 
of  which  Lady  Macbeth  spoke.” 

“It  is,”  said  Madame,  decidedly,  like  one 
speaking  out  of  her  own  heart ; “and,  Lucien, 
that  is  why  I keep  this  mourning  day,  which 
you  have  come  to  share  with  me,  my  first — my 
only  friend!”  How  earnestly  and  kindly  she 
looked  at  me  ; and  I could  do  nothing  but  an- 
swer the  look,  saying  by  that  glance  how  happy 
— how  honored  her  words  made  me  ; how  will- 
ing I was  to-  serve  and  assist  her,  if  possible  ; 
how  resolute  to  keep  her  secret,  no  matter  what 
was  its  nature,  if  she  would  but  take  me  into 
her  confidence ; and  then  came  the  recollection 
of  the  warning  I had  to  give  her ; now  was  the 
time  to  prove  my  value  as  a friend,  the 'only 
opportunity  the  evening  offered.  “If  you  think 
me  such” — I could  scarcely  get  the  words  out — 
“you  will  not  misunderstand  my  motive  for 
telling  you  what  I have  been  trying  to  speak 
of  all  this  evening  : it  is  scarcely  worth  talking 
of,  either,  but  it  is  right  that  you  should  know 
it.”  Her  eye  was  upon  me ; it  had  turned  to 
keen,  cold  scrutiny  now ; but  I went  on  in  the 
strength  of  my  own  honest  purpose — “ I met 
Sally  Joyce  by  accident  last  Sunday  night,  when 
crossing  Berkeley  Square  ; she  was  returning 
with  her  brother  and  sister  from  some  excursion, 
was  highly  excited,  and,  I think,  had  got  some 
spirits.  I did  not  wish  to  speak  to  her,  but  she 
stopped  me  and  talked  — mere  nonsense,  of 
course — but  in  a foolish,  threatening  manner, 
regarding  you.”  - 

“What  did  she  say,  Lucien?  Tell  me  the 
very  words.  I ask  you  for  friendship — for  hon- 
or’s sake ; for  the  league  and  compact  you  made 
with  me.” 

I would  have  told  or  done  any  thing  on  the 
adjuration,  and,  though  it  was  a hard  and  un- 
gracious task,  I told  her,  word  for  word,  all 
that  had  passed  between  Sally  and  me.  Her 
face  never  altered  from  the  cold,  calm  compo- 
sure it  had  assumed ; but  as  I related  the  last 
about  Christmas  Eve,  and  what  happened  in 
Dublin,  Madame’s  eyes  slowly  closed,  and  she 
leant  back  in  her  chair  with  fixed  features  and 
clasped  hands. 

“Sally  said  true,  Lucien,  as  madness  and 
malice  often  do,  and  both  are  troubling  her.” 
How  coldly  and  quietly  she  spoke ; but  her  eyes 
were  still  closed.  “ There  is  no  danger  of  me 
forgetting  the  place  and  the  time;  it  is  the  worst 
of  my  black  destiny  that  such  a creature  should 
have  guessed  it.  Lucien,  my  friend,  the  only 


106 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


man  not  a Palivez  I ever  had  confidence  or  trust 
in,  can  you  not  help  me  to  get  this  woman  out 
of  my  way  ?”  • 

“ I’ll  do  any  thing  that  is  possible  for  man  to 
help  you,  Madame.”  She  had  opened  her  eyes 
now,  and  there  was  something  like  tears  in  them ; 
and  all  my  sister’s  warnings,  all  my  own  resolu- 
tions made  and  broken  so  long  ago  regarding 
that  woman,  all  the  omens  and  suspicions  that 
ever  crossed  me  were  scattered  to  the  winds. 
She  could  have  bound  me  to  any  service — any 
sin  at  that  moment. 

“I  think  you  would,  Lucien ; but  there  is 
only  one  effectual  way,  and  I can’t  ask  you  to 
do  it.” 

“Tell  me  what  it  is,  Madame;  I don’t  ask 
you  what  Sally  knows.  If  you  thought  me 
worthy  of  the  confidence,  no  doubt  you  would 
give  it,  but  perhaps  lam  not,  or  you  may  think 
so ; only  tell  me  what  is  the  way  Sally  can  be 
managed  — what  you  wish  me  to  do,  in  short, 
and  I will  do  it.” 

“No,  Lucien,  I will  not  have- your  hands 
dyed  for  me — that  is  the  one  effectual  way  I 
spoke  of;  you  start  back,  my  friend;  well,  it  is 
natural  you  should ; if  you  knew  all,  you  wpuld 
not  come  here,  I suppose.” 

“I  would,  Madame,  if  you  allowed  me.  No 
matter  what  there  is  to  know,  whatever  the  all 
may  be,  I hold  it  my  heaviest  misfortune  that 
you  think  so  poorly  of  me  as  to  keep  your  troub- 
les— so  heavy  and  dark,  I know  they  must  be — • 
from  me,  xvhom,  nevertheless,  you  have  called 
your  friend.” 

“Ah,  Lucien  !” — she  extended  her  hand,  and 
I clasped  it ; but  how  deathly  cold  the  fingers 
had  grown! — “ it  is  the  misfortune  of  the  self- 
contained,  self-reliant  life  which  I and  all  the 
Palivezi  for  many  a generation  have  led,  that  it 
makes  one  a trustless  stranger  with  all  mankind. 
We  have  been  accustomed  to  employ  and  pay 
them,  to  get  their  service,  to  preserve  their  re- 
spect, to  maintain  our  superiority  of  power  and 
place,  by  keeping  our  own  counsel  and  covering 
our  calamities ; but  we  have  learned  to  trust  in 
no  hand,  no  heart  but  our  own ; and  so  it  hap- 
pens that  such  minds  never  can  regard  others — 
however  noble,  however  true — as  worthy  to  be 
reckoned  with  themselves.  The  honor,  the 
friendship,  scarce  as  such  things  are,  may  come 
within  our  reach,  and  be  passed  by  — seen,  but 
not  believed  in  ; for  long  doubting  makes  faith 
impossible,  and  so  they  are  as  the  weed  in  the 
desert,  which  sees  not  when  good  comes  (that 
old  book  has  powerful  passages  in  it,  Lucien)  ; 
that  is  the  case  with  me.  I have  seen  honor, 
loyalty,  truth  in  your  face — discretion,  too — and 
we  have  had  something  like  friendship  ; but  I 
can  not  yet  trust  you  with  every  thing,  and  yet 
you  are  the  only  living  man  I would  trust  so 
far.  Believe  me,  help  me  if  you  can  ; but  let 
me  know  you  better,  and  I will  tell  you  all.” 

“ Madame,  I ask  for  no  confidence  a moment 
sooner  than  you  choose  to  give  it.  If  you  never 
think  proper  to  do  so,  I will  be  equally  proud 
and  happy  to  risk  evejy  thing  in  your  service.” 


She  said  nothing,  but  clasped  my  hand ; sat 
thoughtful  for  a minute  or  two,  looking  down 
on  the  black  carpet,  and  then  lifted  her  eyes 
with, 

“Lucien,  my  mind  is  made  up  to  take  no 
notice  of  the  woman — Sally  Joyce,  I mean. 
She  has  no  proof,  no  actual  knowledge;  any 
compliance  with  her  demands  would  seem  like 
a bribe,  make  her  imagine  herself  worth  pur- 
chasing, and  therefore  become  more  trouble- 
some.” 

“ She  is  Esthers’  half-sister,”  said  I;  “can 
he  not  manage  her  ?” 

“He  says  he  can  not,”  said  Madame;  “but 
we  must  leave  him  out  of  the  question.  Should 
Sally  attempt  to  make  any  farther  disclosures  to 
you,  have  the  goodness  not  to  listen  to  them. 
I will  take  no  measures  either  of  repression  or 
conciliation.  Let  her  go  on.  She  has  got  into 
her  mother’s  habits,  it  seems ; it  will  bring  her 
to  the  terminus  poor  Esther  reached  — and  the 
sooner  the  better,  I must  say,  for  all  parties.” 

I knew  she  was  speaking  of  a lunatic  asylum, 
and  I thought  of  the  ragged  man  and  his  long 
knife.  Had  Madame  a depot  of  people  put 
away  in  that  fashion  ? Was  it  the  destination 
of  friends  as  well  as  servants  ? I was  ashamed 
of  the  thought,  and  yet  it  crossed  me  while  she 
changed  the  subject  suddenly,  as  was  her  wont, 
by  taking  from  the  nearest  table  a magnificently 
illuminated  manuscript  of  the  ancient  Greek 
Church  liturgy  — written,  as  she  said,  before 
daubs  were  considered,  the  holiest  things — and 
turned  it  over  with  many  a curious  and  schol- 
arly comment  on  the  figures  and  devices  pre- 
sented. They  were  clear  and  strong  illustx-a- 
tions  of  that  early  Christian  thought  or  fancy 
which  found  its  evil  agencies  in  the  dethroned 
gods,  and  formed  its  infernal  kingdom  out  of  the 
classic  Olympus. 

“You  see  from  whence  the  demons  of  the 
Middle  Ages  came,”  said  Madame.  ‘ ‘ They  were 
a legacy  left  to  the  Goths  by  the  schools  of  An- 
tioch and  Alexandria.  Out  of  Gothic  dark- 
ness they  came  still  blacker  into  monkish  lore, 
by  which  they  were  transmitted  to  modern  the- 
ology. In  the  time  of  this  manuscript — I think 
it  belongs  to  the, sixth  century — the  Byzantine 
Empire  had  its  ancient  gods  yet  in  classic  trim, 
though  transferred  to  Tartarus.  Pluto  and  Pan, 
Venus  and  Apollo,  are  here  each  with  their  at- 
tributes and  legends  as  accredited  in  the  temples 
that  were  still  standing  at  that  period,  though 
forsaken  or  turned  to  Christian  uses.  Here, 
too,  are  the  Furies,  who  frightened  all  unlucky 
sinners  from  Orestes  downward  ; and  here  is 
their  mistress,  Hecate,  the  infernal  Nemesis — 
the  moon,  in  her  malignant  aspects,  blasting 
the  bodies  and  minds  of  men  with  pestilence 
or  madness.” 

As  she  spoke,  I became  aware  of  a slight 
smoke  of  a peculiar  odor  which  seemed  to  come 
from  below  and  fill  the  room,  accompanied  by 
a monotonous  and  most  melancholy  sound,  like 
a low,  continuous  wail,  which  had,  nevertheless, 
something  of  articulate  speech. 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


“It  is  only  old  Marco  and  Zoe  burning  in- 
cense and  chanting  psalms  ; they  always  do  so 
on  this  particular  night,  from  eleven  to  twelve.” 
I glanced  up  at  the  time-piece  — it  was  the 
same  she  had  in  Broad  Street — but  the  beauti- 
ful side  of  the  figure  was  covered  with  black 


drapery,  and  the  skeleton’s  hand  was  pointing 
to  some  minutes  after  eleven.  It  was  time  to 
say  good-night,  and  I rose,  but  she  laid  her 
hand  on  my  arm — 

“ Stay  with  me,  Lucien,  till  after  midnight. 
I have  spent  this  hour  alone  for  many  a year, 


107 

but,  now  that  you  are  with  me,  do  not  go  till 
after  twelve.” 

She  spoke  in  a low,  entreating  tone,  with 
downcast  eyes  and  a hand  that  clung  to  mine. 
It  was  strange  to  see  the  head  of  the  Palivez 
bank,  the  politic  and  proud tlady  of  Old  Broad 


Street  and  Mayfair,  so  subdued  and  weighed 
down  by  the  influence  of  some  fearful  memory 
which  her  wealth  and  wisdom  had  no  power  to 
strive  with.  But  she  clung  to  me  in  the  hour 
of  weakness  and  terror ; and  but  half  trusted  as 
I wa9*  my  heart  swelled  with  pride  and  hope. 


108 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


The  terrible  mystery  brought  us  nearer  in  spite 
of  fortune  — made  my  friendship  and  service 
necessary  to  the  solitary  woman,  and  gave  them 
a value  above  those  of  any  Russian  prince  or 
corresponding  banker. 

‘I’ll  stay  till  corning  — till  any  time  you 
like,  Madame.” 

“No,  no,”  she  said,  “only  till  after  twelve. 
It  is  a foolish  thing  to  be  so  afraid  of  sitting 
alone  through  the  hour  which  I have  seen  so 
often  come  and  go;  but  I am  getting  weak. 
Perhaps  the  shadow  of  the  coming  fate  falls 
upon  me.”  The  last  words  Avere  uttered  in  a 
sort  of  whisper,  as  if  to  herself ; and  still  more 
drearily  came  the  wailing  chant  from  beloAV, 
and  thicker  grew  the  odorous  smoke.  “It  is 
the  old  exorcive  rites  of  our  Greek  Church 
they  are  celebrating.  Marco  and  Zoe  are  the 
last  confidential  servants  of  the  Palivezi : born 
in  our  house,  and  bound  to  us,  not  by  vassalage, 
but  by  true  allegiance,  Avhich  descended  through 
their  generations,  they  served  us  from  father  to 
son.  I am  the  last  of  my  family,  and  they  are 
the  last  that  will  serve  me  in  this  manner.  If 
their  humble  faith  were  mine,  Avould  it  be  bet- 
ter in  this  hour?  But  one  can  not  alter  one’s 
self,  and  become  a child,  after  having  inquired 
and  thought.” 

She  looked  at  the  time-piece,  rose,  and  retired 
to  the  farther  corner  of  the  room  ; there  she 
sat  down  in  a low  seat,  leant  her  head  upon  her 
hands  till  the  long  hair  fell  over  and  hid  her 
face  from  me.  Whatever  were  her  thoughts, 
she  evidently  AA'ished  to  keep  them  to  herself ; 
the  thickening  smoke  and  the  wailing  chant 
Avent  on,  and  I sat  silently  waiting  to  be  of 
some  use — Avishing  to  be  of  some,  Avith  a pity  I 
had  never  felt  for  Madame  Palivez  before — till 
the  time-piece  struck  tAvelve,  Avhen  the  chant 
suddenly  ceased,  the  smoke  gradually  grew 
fainter,  and  Madame  rose  from  the  Ioav  seat, 
looking  white  as  marble,  but  composed,  and  all 
herself  again. 

“ I will  give  you  no  thanks  for  sitting  with 
me,  Lucien,”  she  said;  “you  are  my  friend  ; 
if  I had  not  thought  so,  you  should  not  have 
borne  me  company  in  such  an  hour.  It  is  past ; 
and  you  will  do  me  another  service — I know 
you  Avill,  and  therefore  do  not  ask  — it  is  only 
not  to  mention  the  fact  to  me  or  any  one  else.” 

“Whatever  passes  betAveen  you  and  I,  Ma- 
dame, I hold  myself  bound  in  honor  and  in 
friendship  to  keep  secret  from  all  the  Avorld  ; 
and  in  your  presence  1 Avill  speak  only  of  Avhat 
you  please  to  hear.” 

“I  believe  that,  Lucien,  for  you  have  proved 
it ; but,  like  many  a pious  lady,  I have  more 
faith  in  practice,  if  I could  trust  thoroughly. 
But  good-night,”  she  said,  hastily,  as  old  Marco, 
followed  by  a Avoman  not  less  erect,  though 
much  more  Avrinkled  than  himself,  stepped  into 
the  room  with  an  Eastern  reverence  and  an 
earnest  look  at  their  mistress,  as  if  to  see  that 
the  Avatch  was  well  over. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

LUCIEN’s  VISITS  TO  MADAME  PALIVEZ  AEE 
AVATCHED. 

When  I left  Madame  Palivez  some  minutes 
after  twelve  on  Christmas  morning,  my  thoughts 
of  her  had  undergone  a remarkable  change.  I 
loved  the  woman,  better,  it  may  be,  than  I had 
ever  done.  I had  a dark  impression  of  mystery 
and  sin  hanging  about  her  and  her  house  which 
I could  not  get  rid  of,  which  a thousand  evi- 
dences confirmed ; but  I felt  that,  Avhatever  the 
secret  might  be,  she  was  less  guilty  than  unfor- 
tunate. Some  great  and  heavy  sorrotv,  some 
unexplained  calamity  had  fallen  upon  her  days; 
judging  from  the  burned  incense  and  the  chant- 
ed psalms,  there  seemed  something  weird  and 
unearthly  in  it ; the  old  exorcive  rites  of  the 
Greek  Church  were  celebrated  by  her  confiden- 
tial servants  at  the  midnight  hour,  though  not 
belieA'ed  in  by  their  mistress  ; yet  the  sight  of 
her  seated  so  low  in  the  corner,  her  head  bowed 
and  her  long  hair  covering  her  face,  recurred  to 
my  mind  as  the  saddest  picture  of  unexplained, 
unuttered  misery  I had  eArer  imagined.  Yes, 
she  Avas  unfortunate  — unhappy  beyond  my 
guessing ; and  I was  her  friend,  asked  to  watch 
Avith  her  through  that  hour  of  terrible  commem- 
oration ; not  trusted,  indeed,  with  her  secret — it 
Avas  too  hard  for  the  proud  heart  to  tell  me  yet. 
Had  she  not  clearly  explained  the  nature  and 
habits  of  minds  like  her  own  ? I was  her  friend, 
nevertheless;  the  lady  of  the  bank  and  the  poor 
English  clerk  had  grounds  on  which  they  could 
meet  as  equals,  and  I had  the  man’s  part  to  do 
of  support,  if  not  protection.  There  was  joy  in 
the  thought,  and  yet  all  was  wrong  about  her, 
and  me  for  her  sake.  I knew  it ; though  the 
mystery  had  not  been  explained,  it  was  too  black 
for  good  or  Avell-doing  ever  to  consort  with  it ; 
and  there  Avas  Sally  Joyce,  my  sister’s  impres- 
sions, my  aunt’s  dying  words,  and  my  own  ex- 
perience in  the  background. 

I was  walking  rather  slowly  through  the  Park 
with  these  thoughts.  There  had  been  rain, 
which  cleared  aAvay  the  mist;  the  moon  was 
shining,  the  Avind  was  so  low  that  it  scarcely 
moved  the  bare  boughs,  but  a rustling  among 
the  underwood  which  skirted  my  path,  a crisp- 
ing of  the  dry^leaves  which  still  lay  there  in 
heaps,  had  made  me  pause  and  look  round  more 
than  once,  with  the  thought  that  somebody  Avas 
keeping  in  the  shade  and  dogging  me  ; but  I 
could  see  nothing,  and  concluded  it  Avas  fancy, 
till  about  half  Avay  to  the  stream,  at  a spot  where 
the  path  wound  abruptly  and  the  underwood  grew 
thickest,  a chance  look  showed  me  something 
white  on  which  the  moonlight  glistened ; at  an- 
other glance  I saw  that  there  Avas  a face  looking 
out  at  me,  though  intended  to  be  hidden ; it  was 
but  a glimpse,  for  the  whiteness  moved  away, 
but  I knew  it  to  be  that  of  Hannah  Clark. 
My  first  feeling  was  one  of  positive'  terror  ; the 
thing  Avas  so  inexplicable,  so  improbable,  but  it 
was  no  mistake  ; and  my  next  impulse  Avas  to 
find  out  Avhat  the  deaf  and  dumb  girl  could  be 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


109 


doing  there  at  such  an  hour.  At  one  bound  I 
darted  into  the  heart  of  the  thicket,  calling  her 
by  name,  till  I recollected  what  a useless  pursuit 
it  was.  I could  see  nobody,  but  my  ear  caught 
a sound  of  crisping  leaves  and  breaking  boughs 
which  could  not  be  the  wind.  I followed  it  as 
quickly  as  I could,  peering  and  searching  on  all 
sides ; the  Park  was  wild  and  overgrown  in  that 
direction ; I stumbled  into  holes,  got  caught  by 
the  brambles,  lost  tl*e  sound,  which  seemed  to  die 
away  in  the  distance,  and  found  that  I was  los- 
ing my  way.  To  make  matters  worse,  a cloud 
had  come  over  the  moon ; the  night  was  not 
exactly  pitch  dark,  but  something  very  near  it ; 
I went  astray  two  or  three  times  before  I fairly 
recovered  my  way  home,  without  seeing  sign  or 
trace  of  Hannah  or  any  living  creature,  and  it 
was  half  past  one  by  our  house  clock  when  I 
reached  No.  9.  My  sister  did  not  sit  up  for  me 
now,  as  I carried  a latch-key.  All  the  house 
was  silent.  Hannah  could  not  have  come  home 
before  me,  for  how  would  she  get  admission? 
but,  to  make  sure  of  her  absence,  I stepped  qui- 
etly up  to  the  room  where  she  was  accustomed 
to  sleep.  The  door  was  closed,  but  nobody 
locked  their  doors  in  No.  9 ; I softly  lifted  the 
latch  and  looked  in  with  my  candle.  Hannah 
was  there  in  bed  and  fast  asleep,  I thought  at 
first,  but  a second  glance  convinced  me  that  the 
dumb  girl  was  making  believe  to  be  so,  and  very 
unpleasantly  astonished  I closed  the  door  and 
retired,  resolving  to  investigate  the  business  Avith 
Ehoda  as  soon  as  possible. 

Next  morning  Hannah  was  up  and  about 
her  household  work  as  if  nothing  particular 
had  happened  overnight;  but  she  made  great 
efforts  to  look  simple  and  unconscious  when 
my  eye  chanced  to  light  upon  her,  and  I took 
the  opportunity  of  our  sitting  together  at  break- 
fast to  inform  Ehoda  of  my  vision  in  the 
Park. 

“Goodness  be  about  us,  what  could  she  be 
doing  there?  Wasn’t  it  the  wonderful  place  for 
her  in  the  dead  of  the  night!”  and  my  sister 
crossed  herself  with  more  than  usual  piety. 

“ I don’t  know  what  she  was  doing,  Ehoda, 
but  there  she  was,  and  must  have  got  home  be- 
fore me ; but  I can’t  imagine  how  she  got  out 
or  in  without  your  knoAvledge.” 

“ Lucien,”  said  my  sister,  after  a minute  or 
two  of  frightened  thought,  “you’ll  be  angry  with 
me,  maybe,  for  not  telling  you  sooner ; but  I 
knew  you  ne\rer  liked  Hannah,  on  account  of 
her  noisy  kind  of  talk,  all  the  poor  soul  could 
do  in  the  way  of  talking  ; isn’t  she  quit  it  en- 
tirely, and  got  mighty  quiet  of  late  ?” 

“But  what  had  you  to  tell  me  about  her, 
Ehoda  ?” 

“Well,  Lucien,  it  Avas  just  this:  Hannah  has 
been  in  the  way  of  going  out  and  coming  in 
again  in  a manner  I can’t  understand.  I have 
missed  her  by  day,  and  by  night  too,  out  of  the 
house  and  out  of  her  bed ; there  is  nobody  about 
this  place  has  a latch-key  but  yourself — anyhow, 
I never  would  think  of  giving  her  one  ; but  she 
gets  out,  Lucien,  and  she  gets  in  at  all  hours, 


| and  how  she  does  it,  or  where  she  goes  to,  I 
can’t  make  out.” 

“But  why  did  you  not  watch  her,  Ehoda?” 
“I  tried  it,  but  could  not  get  it  done;  if  it 
was  night,  sleep  would  come  on  me ; if  it  was 
day,  something  would  happen  to  take  me  up 
stairs,  and  there  she  would  be  in  the  kitchen 
when  I came  back ; goodness  knows,  Lucien,  I 
don’t  know  Avhat  to  think  of  it ; and  sometimes, 
putting  all  the  queer  things  that  has  happened 
in  our  house  together,  and  old  Irish  stories — 
superstitions,  maybe,  you’ll  call  them — I take  a 
notion  that  she  might  be  going  Avith  the  fairies, 
only  I never  heard  that  they  come  about  Lon- 
don.” 

“No,  Ehoda,  I don’t  think  they  do,  whateA'er 
worse  things  may  come.” 

“ In  course  you’re  laughing  at  me,”  said  Eho- 
da, “ but  such  things  did  happen  in  Ireland  ; 
there  was  Nelly  Flince,  that  never  could  be 
kept  in  the  house,  summer  or  winter,  and  came 
back  Avith  a neAv  green  swash  on  Hallow  EA'e. 
Mind,  I don’t  say  Hannah  is  going  the  same 
way ; it  might  be  after  worse,  as  you  say ; she  is 
active  and  crafty ; I never  could  come  up  to  her 
in  some  things.” 

“Did  you  ask  her  about  it?” 

“I  did,  Lucien,  many  a time,  and  scolded 
her  too — the  Lord  forgive  me,  for  she  is  deaf 
and  dumb — but  I never  could  get  her  to  OAvn 
that  she  had  been  out  at  all,  much  less  hoAv  she 
managed  it ; but,  Lucien,  it  is  out  she  goes,  and 
not  disappearing  like  Allie  Connor — howsoever, 
you  don’t  mind  her ; she  died  in  Armagh  before 
\^e  left  it — but,  as  I was  saying,  it’s  out  Hannah 
goes,  for  I ha\’e  heard  the  door  creak  onaccount- 
able  like,  and  the  next  minute  she  was  off.” 

“ How  long  has  the  business  been  going  on?” 
“That’s  the  thing  I was  thinking  of  the  other 
day,  Lucien.  It  is  a good  while  since  the  very 
beginning.  I missed  her  first  one  evening  just 
after  my  aunt’s  last  sickness  came  on  ; and  you 
mind  what  Mrs.  Muncy  told  us  that  day  we 
came  home  from  the  Masons,  about  the  gentle- 
man that  had  been  asking  for  you  and  signing 
to  Hannah.  She  said  it  was  Father  Connolly  ; 
but  Mrs.  Muncy,  when  she  saw  the  priest  at  the 
time  of  my  aunt’s  funeral,  told  me  it  wasn’t  him  at 
all,  Lucien.  I don’t  knoAv  what  to  think  of  it.” 
“You  should  have  told  me  sooner,  Ehoda.” 

“ So  I should ; but  I could  not  believe  the 
thing  at  first  myself,  it  was  so  on  accountable, 
and  come  by  slow  degrees,  you  see ; she  is  get- 
ting better  or  worse  at  it  every  day ; it  Avas  not 
for  loAre  of  keeping  a secret  from  you,  Lucien, 
but  I knew  you  didn’t  like  Hannah  from  the 
beginning.  I Avas  afraid  to  put  you  more 
against  her,  poor  orphan  as  she  is,  and  you  had 
troubles  enough  of  your  own.” 

“Yes,  Ehoda,  but  this  business  might  bring 
more  trouble  to  us  both.  Hannah’s  goings  out 
in  that  hidden  way  can  be  for  no  good  purpose  ; 
there  is  bad  company  enough-  to  be  found  so 
near  a great  town — people  far  worse  than  your 
Irish  fairies,  and  poor  Hannah  is  not  qualified 
for  taking  care  of  herself.  I wish  we  had  not 


110 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


brought  her  to  our  house ; but  it  was  the  only  I 
thing  we  could  do  at  the  time,  and  I think  we 
are  bound  to  take  care  of  her.” 

“In  course  we  are,  Lucien;  and  I was  just 
thinking  we  are  better  off  now,  and  I have  got 
that  income  ; couldn’t  I spare  as  much  out  of  it 
as  would  pay  for  Hannah’s  keeping  with  some 
decent  people  in  Ireland  ? I wouldn’t  give  her 
to  nobody  here.  I could  not  trust  one  of  them 
to  do  right  by  the  poor  soul,  that  can’t  speak  for 
herself — no,  not  the  Masons,  Lucien  ; honest 
and  respectable  as  they  are,  they  have  all  the 
same  hard  faces  and  hard  hearts.  But  there  is 
people  in  Ireland — not  our  cousin,  mind!  we 
had  enough  of  him  and  his  upsetting  wife ; but 
Father  Connolly  would  find  somebody  that 
would  take  her  and  keep  her  far  away  from  bad 
company  and  bad  notions,  for  I doubt  there  is 
something  of  that  kind  dealing  with  her.  She 
was  company  for  me  once,  and  I would  have 
missed  her,  but  since  she  has  turned  so  queer 
and  crafty,  I think  both  me  and  the  house 
would  be  as  well  without  her;  this  outgoing 
will  come  to  no  good  ; and  whoever  she  meets, 
or  wherever  she  goes  to,  Hannah  is  the  cliang- 
edest  person  since  it  begun.” 

“How  is  she  changed,  Rhoda?” 

“Well,  just  in  every  thing,  and  there  is  no 
peace  living  with  her.  She  won’t  mind  a word  I 
say,  she  won’t  tell  a word  of  truth — in  course  it’s 
signs  I mean,  but  it  is  all  the  same — and  when 
there  is  any  thing  said  or  done  against  her 
mind,  she  gets  up  like  a fury,  Lucien ; I don’t 
think  one  would  be  safe  long  in  the  house  with 
her,  and  if  you  let  me,  we  will  get  her  sent  to 
Ireland.” 

Some  farther  conversation  revealed  particu- 
lars of  Hannah’s  conduct  which  the  "kindly  and 
forbearing  nature  of  my  sister,  and  that  almost 
superstitious  regard  for  the  afflicted,  which,  in 
common  with  most  of  the  Irish  peasantry,  she 
entertained,  had  made  her  keep  from  my  knowl- 
edge. The  dumb  girl  had  become  not  only 
unruly,  but  violent — made  more  than  one  fierce 
attack  on  Rhoda  when  she  attempted  to  admon- 
ish her  by  reproving  looks  and  signs.  There 
was  no  mode  of  reasoning  with  Hannah  that  we 
knew  of,  whatever  the  teachers  of  her  class  may 
do — whatever  Helen  Forbes,  with  her  earnest, 
patient  piety,  might  have  done.  I knew  the 
untaught,  unconversable  woman  had  strong  mus- 
cles and  strong  passions.  Active  and  crafty 
she  must  be  beyond  our  calculations,  and  what- 
ever took  her  to  the  heart  of  Kensington  Park 
at  midnight,  whoever  the  signing  gentleman 
might  be  -whom  she  had  passed  oft’  for  Father 
Connolly,  the  hidden  outgoings  must  lead  to  no 
good  for  us  or  herself.  Then  there  was  my 
sister  alone  in  the  house  with  her  all  day  while 
I was  in  Broad  Street.  What  might  an  at- 
tempt to  control  those  outgoings  stir  up  Han- 
nah to  do?  She  had  once  threatened  Rhoda 
with  a knife ; “ she  didn’t  mean  nothing  ; it  was 
just  her  way  of  showing  temper,  maybe,”  said 
the  over-conscientious  girl,  when  relating  the 
circumstance ; but  it  struck  terror  to  my  heart 


for  possible  consequences,  and  I at  once  adopted 
Rhoda’s  scheme  of  settling  her  with  some  decent 
people  in  Ireland.  We  agreed  that  it  would 
be  well  to  consult  Father  Connolly  ; he  would 
doubtless  advise  us  in  the  matter,  and  also  rec- 
ommend some  honest  family  who  would  take 
charge  of  Hannah ; her  wants  could  be  pro- 
vided for  from  my  sister’s  income  and  my  own  ; 
and,  though  our  house  might  be  made  more 
solitary,  it  would  also  be  s^Ter.  In  the  mean 
time,  I advised  Rhoda  to  keep  a strict  but  very 
quiet  watch  on  her  movements,  resolved  to  do 
the  same  myself,  and  turned  over  in  my  mind 
contrivances  for  attaching  a bell  to  the  outer 
door  which  would  ring  the  instant  it  was  open- 
ed, however  softly,  and  thus  give  me  informa- 
tion to  follow  Hannah  to  her  place  of  rendez- 
vous, for  that  there  was  a gentleman  in  the  case 
I could  not  doubt,  and  my  curiosity  to  discover 
who  had  come  so  cunningly  and  struck  up  an 
acquaintance  knew  no  bounds.  Rhoda  watch- 
ed, and  so  did  I when  at  home  ; the  bell  was 
actually  fastened  to  the  door  with  a wire  pass- 
ing up  to  my  bedroom  ; but  whether  our  pre- 
cautions or  the  knowledge  that  she  had  been 
seen  in  the  Park  warned  Hannah,  certain  it  was 
that,  as  far  as  we  could  observe,  there  was  no 
outgoing  for  the  next  week.  About  the  middle 
of  it  she  had,  indeed,  contrived  to  get  an  errand 
to  the  green-grocer’s,  who  knew  her  well,  and 
did  business  a little  way  off  at  the  top  of  the 
village  street ; but  Hannah  had  returned  in  good- 
time  with  the  greens  she  went  for ; it  was  broad 
daylight,  and  my  sister  had  watched  her  to  the 
turn.  The  green  - grocer’s  wife  — who,  being 
from  Ireland,  and  a discreet  woman,  Rhoda 
thought  proper  to  take  into  confidence — said 
that  to  her  knowledge  Hannah  never  took  up 
with  nobody  but  the  Jew’s  boy,  as  she  called 
the  son  of  an  old  clothesman  or  wardrobe-seller 
who  kept  shop  hard  by,  and  belonged  to  some 
of  the  tribes  of  Israel.  The  Jew’s  boy  and 
Hannah  were  in  the  habit  of  exchanging  .signs 
and  salutations ; but  it  was  not  to  meet  the 
sharp,  cunning-looking,  unwashed  urchin,  under 
ten,  that  she  stole  forth  at  such  uncommon  hours. 


CHAPTER  XXXIY. 

HANNAH  CLARK  GETS  A NEW  MISTRESS. 

I made  no  discoveries,  and  the  week  passed. 
Father  Connolly  was  so  much  occupied  with 
his  Christmas  duties  that  there  was  no  oppor- 
tunity for  consultation,  and  the  subject  was 
fresh  in  my  mind  when  I went  to  the  Broad 
Street  back  rooms  on  Sunday  evening.  Ma- 
dame Palivez  was  there  in  her  accustomed  looks 
and  wonted  spirits — her  purple  velvet  dress, 
gold  buttons  and  pins,  but  no  trace  of  the  black 
drapery  or  mourning  robe.  They  had  all  been 
left  at  the  solitai*y  woodland  villa,  and  the  re- 
membrance of  their  cause  or  causes  seemed  to 
be  left  there  too.  Madame  was  as  lively  in 
chat,  as  free  and  easy  of  thought  as  ever  I found 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


Ill 


her ; we  discussed  the  news  of  the  day,  new 
books,  new  plays,  new  pictures ; she  had  an 
early  acquaintance  with  them  all,  an  unfailing 
supply  of  West  End  and  City  gossip,  and  no- 
body could  have  imagined  that  night  that  she 
had  been  the  very  woman  who  had  sat  so  fear 
or  sorrow  stricken,  with  incense  burned  and 
psalms  chanted  about  her  on  Christmas  Eve. 

I cannot  recall  how  our  conversation  turned 
upon  it  — I had  no  intention  of  intruding  my 
family  difficulties  upon  her — but  I think  it  was 
an  American  print  she  had  bought,  of  an  Indian 
stealing  after  his  unsuspecting  enemy,  hatchet  in 
hand,  through  the  thick  of  a forest,  which  re- 
minded me  partly,  by  something  in  the  face  of 
the  savage,  of  the  one  I had  seen  peeping  out  at 
me  from  the  underwood  in  Kensington  Park. 

“Is  it  not  lifelike?”  said  Madame,  catching 
• my  look  of  recollection — never  had  woman  more 
perceptive  power — “and  like  something  you 
have  seen,  Lucien  ? Tell  me,  now,  honestly, 
if  men  ever  do  so,  of  what  does  that  print  re- 
mind you?  Have  you,” and  I knew  her  ques- 
tion was  not  merely  curious,  “ever  seen  any 
body  stealing  along,  watching  or  hiding  in  the 
shade  of  trees  or  shrubbery  in  the  manner  of 
the  Indian  there — in  short,  Lucien,  did  you 
ever  see  any  thing  of  the  kind  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  my  villa  ?”  It  was  right  and  necessary 
to  give  her  the  whole  detail  regarding  Hannah, 
so  far  as  my  sister  and  myself  knew  it,  and  I 
did  so  at  once. 

“ Curious  and  strange,”  said  Madame,  evi- 
dently much  relieved ; my  tale  was  not  what 
she  had  dreaded  and  expected  to  hear.  ‘ ‘ Those 
lives  which  are  so  cut  off  from  ours  by  having 
the  two  great  channels  of  human  communication 
closed,  are  not  to  be  marked  out  or  measured  by 
our  schooled  and  conventional  reason.  They  re- 
main in  the  primitive  state  of  mankind,  before 
schools  were  set  up,  creeds  invented,  or  laws 
made  to  bind  and  loose,  and  they  keep  the  wild 
liberty,  perhaps  the  occult  powers  of  that  far-off 
time.  But  what  you  suspect  is  very  probable. 
Hannah  may  have  got  intp  company  or  connec- 
tions by  which  little  credit  and  less  comfort  may 
come  to  you  and  your  house.  The  sooner  she 
is  removed  the  better ; but,  Lucien,  why  trouble 
yourself  finding  a home  for  her  in  Ireland  ? I 
will  take  the  girl ; my  Eastern  education  and 
leanings  have  given  me  a fancy  for  mutes,  and 
there  is  a woman  wanted  just  now  to  act  as  my 
chambermaid.” 

“ I am  afraid  Hannah’s  training  will  scarcely 
qualify  her  for  acting  as  your  chambermaid, 
Madame,  and  I have  told  you  what  sort  of  a 
temper  she  has.” 

“ Oh,  nevermind  ; Madame  Oniga  will  man- 
age all  that.  Six  months  under  her  discreet 
tuition  will  bring  your  protege  to  a wonderful 
degree  of  civilization.  As  I said  before,  I have 
a fancy  for  mutes ; they  suit  my  service.  In 
short,  Lucien,  let  the  girl  come  to  me ; tell  your 
sister  about  it,  and  if  she  is  satisfied  I will  send 
Calixi  to  conduct  Hannah  into  the  charge  and 
domains  of  Madame  Oniga.” 


“ My  sister  will  be  grateful  to  you,  as  you 
may  believe  I am,  for  offering  to  take  such  a 
responsibility  off  our  hands  ; you  probably  know 
why  we  incurred  it  ?” 

“ I do,  Lucien  ; it  was  handsomely  done,  and 
therefore  I wish  to  relieve  you  of  it.” 

‘ ‘ But,  Madame,  is  it  wise  ? is  it  safe  for  you  ? 
May  not  the  same  discredit  and  discomfort 
come  to  your  house  which  you  have  justly  re- 
marked to  threaten  ours?” 

“Lucien,  my  house  is  a different  one,  and 
differently  regulated.  Trust  me,  the  silent,  im- 
movable Russian  system  practiced  by  my  dis- 
creet housekeeper  because  she  neither  knows 
nor  would  ever  learn  any  other,  is  the  very 
thing  for  your  unmanageable  mute ; it  knows 
no  change,  no  modification,  no  individual  will 
or  choice ; people  do  as  they  are  hidden,  and 
see  nothing  else  done ; the  work,  the  meals,  the 
prayers,  for  Madame  carries  them  on  also,  go 
like  clock-work,  without  variation  or  regard  to 
any  thing  above  or  below.  There  your  prote- 
ge will  be  brought  into  discipline ; you  need 
not  be  afraid*of  her  being  overworked  or  too 
severely  dealt  with — such  things  are  not  per- 
mitted in  my  territories ; but  the  new  and  un- 
familiar life  into  which  she  will  find  herself 
transplanted,  the  strange  faces  around  her,  the 
regular  ongoing  of  matters,  steady,  and  silent  as 
the  ongoings  of  night  and  day — I’ll  vouch  for 
their  being  so  under  Madame  Oniga — will  take 
hold  on  her  mind,  for  they  will  speak  to  her 
eye.  She  will  learn  to  be  steady  and  subject, 
and,  being  removed  from  the  company  or  con- 
nections she  has  got  into,  she  must  needs  give 
it  up  and  probably  forget  it.  Have  you  any 
idea  that  there  is  really  company  or  connections 
concerned  ?” 

“Erom  what  I mentioned  of  the  man  who 
called  at  our  house  and  never  came  back,  I con- 
clude there  is,  and  I thought  you  had  taken  the 
same  view,  Madame?” 

“Well,  I did:  but  just  now  it  struck  me 
might  not  the  girl  have  been  acting  as  a spy  on 
you  ? Are  you  quite  sure  that  her  stealing  out 
and  concealing  herself  in  the  old  park  at  mid- 
night was  not  prompted  by  jealousy ; might  not 
her  silent  fancy  have  followed  you,  and  might 
not  her  outgoings  be  on  purpose  to  trace  your 
steps  and  discover  a supposed  as  well  as  suc- 
cessful rival?  It  occurs  to  me  that  I have  seen 
her  lurking  about  my  villa  in  the  same  stealthy 
manner,  about  the  end  of  last  summer,  wrhen  you 
were  coming  and  going — I think,  I hope  it  was 
she.” 

“If  it  were,  Madame,  I honestly  believe  you 
have  misinterpreted  her  motives.  Whatever 
fancies  Hannah  Clark  may  have,  they  never 
went  my  way.”  I spoke  from  sincere  convic- 
tion ; the  dumb  girl  had  regarded  me  with  as 
little  preference  as  I did  her ; she  knew  me  as 
the  gentleman  of  the  family  who  didn’t  like  her 
noise,  for  whom  floors  had  to  be  swept  and 
rooms  put  in  order ; her  goings  forth  had  been 
mostly  when  I was  out,  it  was  true,  but  then  I 
had  reason  to  believe  that  they  did  not  lead  her 


112 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


in  the  direction  of  Broad  Street,  where  I was 
mostly  to  be  found.  In  short,  it  was  my  firm 
belief  that  neither  fancy  nor  jealousy  as  con- 
cerned myself  brought  Hannah  out  at  such  un- 
accountable hours,  and  (Supplied  her  with  a key 
for  our  street  door,  which,  unless  my  sister’s 
hypothesis  of  the  fairies  were  accepted,  she 
must  have  possessed.  There  was  company  or 
connection  of  some  sort,  and  none  of  the  best. 
I demonstrated  that  to  Madame  Palivez,  and 
she  dismissed  her  conjecture  with,  “Well,  Lu- 
cien,  you  can  not  claim  the  conquest,  I see,  and 
am  pretty  sure  you  never  tempted  it,  as  the 
glory  would  not  be  great.  However,  I hold  by 
my  first  proposal — Hannah  Clark  shall  be  re- 
ceived into  my  establishment,  if  your  sister  be 
agreeable ; tell  her  I pledge  my  word  and  honor 
that  the  dumb  girl  shall  be  well  and  kindly 
treated,  and  never  want  for  provision ; I take 
that  matter  entirely  on  myself.” 

“It  is  very  kind — very  generous  of  you, 
Madame.” 

“ Nonsense,  Lucien  ; I told  you  I had  a fancy 
for  mutes,  and  I know  it  is  the#best  thing  for 
her  and  for  you.” 

The  question  was  thus  settled  between  us. 

I lost  no  time  in  telling  my  sister  next  day, 
and  Rhoda’s  surprise  was  great.  I don’t  think 
she  entirely  relished  the  idea  of  Hannah  going 
to  Madame  Palivez  ; but  the  expediency  of  her 
removal  had  got  deeply  impressed  on  my  sis- 
ter’s mind ; her  unaccountable  outgoings  and 
incomings  had  inspired  Rhoda  with  a sort  of 
superstitious  dread,  and  she  was  willing  to  see 
Hannah  settled  in  any  good  quarters  out  of  No. 
9.  “It’s  oncommon  kind  of  the  lady  to  take 
her,  Lucien — all  on  your  account,  no  doubt.  I 
always  thought  she  would  do  something  for  you, 
and  I oughtn’t  to  have  such  notions  in  my 
mind  against  her;  but  I would  rather  Hannah 
was  going  to  Ireland,  to  live  among  the  Con- 
nors or  the  Burkes,  though  the  place  wouldn’t 
be  near  so  grand.  But  since  the  lady  promises 
so  well  for  poor  Hannah,  and  you  are  sure  she 
will  keep  it,  let  her  go  in  the  name  of  good- 
ness, and  just  say  to  the  lady  for  me  that  I’ll 
never  forget  her  kindness,  though  I can’t  do  no 
more  than  mind  her  in  my  prayers.” 

I assured  Rhoda,  what  I really  believed,  that 
Madame  Palivez  would  keep  her  promise 
"strictly  and  honorably;  that  Hannah  would  be 
safe  and  well  provided  for  in  her  establishment, 
and  we  should  be  relieved  from  all  anxiety  on 
her  account.  On  one  subject  we  were  both 
doubtful,  and  it  troubled  us — would  Hannah  be 
willing  to  go  to  the  strange  house  and  strange 
people?  We  had  voluntarily  taken  charge  of 
the  dumb  girl,  and  how  could  we  send  her  from 
us  without  her  own  consent?  “If  she  don’t 
like  to  go  we  will  not  ax  her,  Lucien ; maybe 
the  hand  of  Providence  is  in  it ; mind,  I am 
not  saying  any  thing  against  the  lady,  but  I am 
bothered  for  fear  Hannah  should  want  to  stay 
with  us.  I never  thought  of  parting  with  her 
once,  but  this  is  a changing  world  ; however,  I’ll 
just  go  down  and  see  what  Hannah  has  got  to  I 


say  about  going  to  the  lady  ; it  will  settle  your 
mind  before  you  go  to  the  bank.” 

Rhoda  went  to  put  the  question  ; I had  never 
acquired  the  art  of  conversing  with  Hannah,  not- 
withstanding the  friendly  and  frequent  exhorta- 
tions of  Helen  Porbes.  Men  possessed  of  the 
same  senses  live  most  in  some  of  them,  and  my 
habit  of  life  was  more  in  the  ear  than  the  eye. 
So  the  gulf  between  the  dumb  girl  and  me  was 
even  wider  than  it  might  have  been ; but  I 
knew  Rhoda  could  speak  to  her  mind,  and  I 
knew’  she  had  endeavored  in  vain  to  get  the 
slightest  admission  regarding  her  secret  outgo- 
ings or  her  mode  of  opening  our  street  door. 
Would  she  be  equally  unsuccessful  now  in  get- 
ting Hannah’s  consent  to  her  own  transfer  to 
the  unknown  establishment  of  Madame  Palivez  ? 
The  consultation  was  brief  and  much  quieter 
than  usual,  but  Rhoda  came  up  looking  very 
much  astonished. 

“She  is  willing  to  go,  Lucien,  quite  willing, 
and  it  takes  the  weight  of  a mountain  olf  my 
mind  ; but  nobody  could  have  expected  it.  Sure 
I was  always  kind  to  her,  and  so  were  you  in  a 
manner,”  and  Rhoda  sat  down  as  if  overcome 
with  amazement;  “but,  Lucien,  she  is  per- 
fectly happy — ready  to  dance  for  joy  at  the 
chance  of  getting  away.  I suppose  it’s  on  ac- 
count of  the  grand  place  she  is  going  to.  Many 
a time  I have  seen  her  looking  at  that  lady 
when  she  rode  by.  I never  thought  Hannah 
had  a liking  for  her ; but  she  is  glad  to  go  and 
leave  us,  anyhow.” 

I was  surprised  too,  and  not  very  pleasantly  ; 
nobody  likes  to  be  parted  from  without  regret, 
especially  by  their  dependents ; but  the  next 
moment  I thought  and  said  to  my  sister,  “We 
are  glad  to  get  quit  of  her,  and  as  things  have 
turned  out,  it  is  best  that  Hannah  should  be  so 
ready  for  the  change.  I can  not  understand  it, 
but  neither  can  I comprehend  the  rest  of  her  do- 
ings; you  will  be  well  without  her,  Rhoda,  and 
she  will  be  safe  with  Madame  Palivez’s  house- 
keeper.” 

“ Oh,  it’s  just  the  hand  of  Providence,”  said 
Rhoda,  shaking  off  her  astonishment;  “but 
run,  Lucien,  or  you’ll  be  late  for  the  bank,  and 
don’t  be  afraid  that  I won’t  get  her  ready.” 

Some  three  days  after  that  family  council, 
when  the  getting  ready  was  near  its  conclusion, 
apd  Hannah’s  eagerness  for  her  departure  seemed 
on  the  increase  every  hour,  Madame  Oniga  met 
me  in  the  passage  to  Esthers’  office,  which  was 
rather  out  of  her  beat,  and  said  in  her  discreet 
tone,  “Madame  has  desired  me  to  ask  if  the 
young  person  may  be  sent  for  to-day.” 

“As  soon  as  Madame  pleases,”  said  I.  The 
housekeeper  passed  on,  and  I caught  a glimpse 
of  Esthers  peeping  at  our  interview  through  the 
door,  which  happened  to  be  ajar,  and  something 
in  it  must  have  gratified  the  manager,  for  he 
was  smiling  to  himself  when  I stepped  in,  but 
got  immersed  in  business  the  next  moment,  and, 
to  my  great  surprise,  made  no  attempt  to  in- 
vestigate the  matter. 

When  I reached  home  that  evening,  Rhoda 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


113 


was  sitting  by  the  fire  with  a rather  disconsolate 
look.  Hannah  was  gone.  “The  bank  lady’s 
servant — an  oncommon  sensible  foreign  man — 
came  in  a coach  and  took  her  and  her  box  away 
with  mighty  civility,  but  very  little  talk,”  said 
my  observant  sister ; “ and  I hope  Hannah  will 
be  happy  and  well,  for  she  nearly  jumped  out  of 
her  skin  with  gladness  to  go,  and  hardly  said  as 
much  as  God  bless  you ! to  me.  She  is  ongrate- 
ful,  Lucien,  but  it’s  wrong  to  think  so  of  the 
poor  soul.  I am  not  just  sorry.  It  is  the  best 
thing  for  us  and  for  her,  as  you  said ; but  it’s 
queer  to  look  back  and  think  that  they  are  all 
gone.  Hannah  was  the  last  of  them  ; and  you 
and  me  will  have  the  house  to  ourselves  now. 
Howsoever,  Father  Connolly  has  been  here.  I 
wouldn’t  let  Hannah  go  without  him  seeing  her. 
He  says  it’s  an  oncommon  kind  thing  of  the 
lady ; and  the  Greek  Church  she  belongs  to 
comes  next  to  the  Roman,  only  they  don’t  make 
the  sign  of  the  cross  right ; but  that  will  do 
Hannah  no  harm,  and  he  has  promised  to  get 
a decent  Irish  girl  to  do  the  housework  and  keep 
me  from  being  lonely.  Goodness,  goodness, 
but  this  is  the  changing  world.” 


CHARTER  XXXV. 

THE  FORBES’  TROUBLES. 

Two  or  three  times  in  the  succeeding  weeks 
Madame  Oniga  waylaid  me  in  the  passages,  as  I 
guessed,  by  special  commands,  with  the  best  ac- 
counts of  Hannah.  She  was  learning  her  new 
duties,  giving  general  satisfaction,  and  seem- 
ingly well  satisfied  herself.  Her  line  of  service 
was  in  the  private  establishment,  not  in  the 
bank-rooms,  where  Madame  and  the  gravest  of 
her  satellites  officiated  for  the  clerks  of  conflict- 
ing creeds  and  cookery ; but  as  time  progressed, 
and  she  advanced  in  civilization,  Hannah  was 
allowed  to  appear  occasionally  in  my  Sunday 
visits,  doing  duty  under  the  conduct  of  Calixi 
and  other  trusty  Eastern  men,  chiefly,  as 
Madame  Palivez  remarked,  that  I might  see 
how  well  the  transplantation  agreed  with  her. 
It  did  agree  beyond  a doubt.  Hannah  looked 
well  and  contented,  but  showed  no  joy  at  the 
sight  of  me,  made  no  signs  of  inquiry  after 
Rhoda,  and  I fancied  was  rather  glad  to  get  out 
of  the  room.  Madame  Palivez  assured  me  that 
her  troublesome  tricks  of  outgoing  and  the  like 
had  been  completely  broken  off  by  her  removal. 
Hannah  had  made  no  attempt,  of  the  kind  since 
her  coming  to  Old  Broad  Street.  The  silent, 
immovable  system  of  Russian  rule  seemed  best 
suited  to  her  speechless  life,  and  I observed 
that,  though  not  quite  so  lively  as  when  with 
us,  she  looked  more  intelligent,  thoughtful,  and 
even  refined. 

Our  minds  were  relieved  concerning  Hannah, 
and  Father  Connolly  found  us  a maid — one  of 
the  many  sober,  well-doing  Irish,  an  emigrant 
from  his  native  parish  in  the  west  of  Ulster.  I 
am  not  sure  that  she  was  not  distantly  related  to 
H 


the  good  priest  also,  for  her  name  was  Nelly 
Connolly.  In  process  of  time  we  found  her  to 
be  an  honest,  faithful  creature — a great  help  to 
Rhoda  in  her  solitary  housekeeping,  and  some- 
thing of  a companion  too,  as  myisister  required, 
as  an  only  and  trusty  servant  ought  to  be.  It 
quieted  my  conscience  and  cheered  my  heart  in 
my  long  days  at  the  bank,  in  my  Saturdays’  and 
Sundays’  outgoings,  to  know  in  what  a cordial 
and  social  manner  mistress  and  maid  got  on. 
They  managed  the  household  affairs  ; they  went 
to  chapel  together ; they  kept  fast  and  confes- 
sion days ; they  told  each  other  Irish  tales  and 
legends,  and  they  especially  agreed  in  finding 
fault  with  all  the  doers  and  dwellers  of  the  land 
in  which  it  was  their  lot  to  sojourn.  Watt 
Wilson,  the  Masons,  and  all  Rhoda’s  circle  got 
sifted  and  criticised  as  they  had  never  been  be- 
fore by  their  united  wisdom ; but  no  disturbance 
of  the  small  society  took  place,  the  sifting  and 
criticism  being  discreetly  kept  out  of  hearing. 
Without  and  within  there  were  peace  and  plenty 
among  us.  We  found  our  income  easy  and  out- 
house large.  Mr.  Forbes  refused  all  increase  of 
rent  for  it.  I made  an  effort  to  shake  off  some 
of  my  obligations  that  way  ; “but  no,  Lucien,” 
he  said,  “I  am  satisfied  with  the  terms  and  the 
tenants.  While  you  and  your  sister  are  willing 
to  stay,  we  will  make  no  change  of  either  and, 
Helen  hoped  that  I did  not  regard  her  papa  as  a 
landlord,  but  as  a friend.  Friendly  he  had  been 
to  me  and  mine  beyond  the  possibility  of  return 
— friendly  he  and  his  daughter  were  still.  Helen 
had  taken  no  offense  at  Rhoda’s  declining  her 
invitation  to  Notting  Hill  House.  She  had 
heard  me  state  her  apologies  without  a remark, 
and  never  reverted  to  the  subject,  but  she  con- 
tinued to  drop  in  in  the  forenoons  when  I was  at 
the  bank,  to  bring  small  presents,  to  talk  famil- 
iarly with  Rhoda,  and  to  make  kind  inquiries 
after  Hannah  Clark.  We  had  been  obliged  to 
tell  the  Forbes’  our  reasons  for  parting  with  heir, 
and  Madame  Palivez’s  'kindness  in  taking  her 
into  the  establishment  in  Broad  Street.  The 
banker  said  it  was  the  very  best  place  that  could 
be  found  for  Hannah.  Wherever  Madame  Pa- 
livez ruled,  there  would  be  good  management 
and  strict  discipline,  he  was  sure,  but  Helen  la- 
mented that  there  was  little  chance  of  her  getting 
religious  instruction.  From  what  Mr.  Esthers 
had  told  them,  she  was  afraid  the  Greek  lady 
had  little  relish  for  serious  subjects,  and  her  serv- 
ants practiced  nothing  but  Russian  and  Greek 
superstitions. 

Mr.  Esthers  told  her  a great  deal  about  the 
bank  in  Broad  Street  and  its  ruler.  His  inti- 
macy at  Notting  Hill  House  was  thickening  ev- 
ery day.  I could  not  avoid  seeing,  for  he  took 
care  I should,  the  notes  and  messages  which 
passed  between  him  and  the  banker — not  to 
speak  of  the  banker’s  daughter ; small  epistles 
in  her  handwriting  were  left,  as  if  by  accident, 
on  his  desk ; trusty  boys,  of  w-hom  Mr.  Esthers 
had  an  outdoor  retinue — every  one  Jews — were 
continually  coming  and  going  with  dispatches, 
which  they  had  evidently  instructions  not  to 


Ill 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


keep  too  private.  Through  that  arrangement  I 
was  able  to  perceive  that  the  subject-matter  was 
not  always  of  much  importance.  It  was  Mr. 
Esthers’  policy  to  exhibit  the  familiar  footing  on 
which  he  stoo$  with  the  Forbes’,  to  keep  him- 
self before  their  eyes  and  minds,  if  it  were  only 
by  making  a fuss.  All  this  I could  have  under- 
stood ; but  in  my  Saturday  visits — by  the  ac- 
counts which  Rhoda  gave  me  of  Helen’s  con- 
versation— by  my  sister’s  own  remarks,  always 
shrewd  and  far-sighted — by  a thousand  signs 
not  to  be  rehearsed  or  remembered  now,  I dis- 
covered that  the  Jew  manager,  who  gave  them 
such  good  hopes  of  his  conversion,  and  borrowed 
the  proof  catechism,  had  contrived  to  acquire  a 
kind  of  influence  over  my  prudent  Scotch  friends 
for  which  I could  not  account.  As  I have  said, 
his  intimacy  with  them  and  their  house  seemed 
daily  on  the  increase.  He  was  not  only  received 
on  Sundays  to  read  sermons  and  take  part  in 
their  family  devotions,  but  on  week-days  and 
evenings  Mr.  Esthei’s  now  found  time  for  fre- 
quent though  generally  flying  calls,  and  by  the 
unconcealed  notes  and  messages,  I found  out 
that  he  gave  information  and  advice  both  in 
household  and  bank  affairs.  The  Forbes’  re- 
ceived him  as  a friend,  responded  to  all  his 
communications,  complied  with,  almost  antici- 
pated, his  wishes ; yet  it  became  evident  to  me 
by  this  time  that  they  did  not  like  the  Jew,  nor 
ideally  desire  his  company.  I had  never  been 
present  at  one  of  his  calls.  Both  they  and  he 
seemed  to  consider  my  absence  advisable ; that 
he  had  made  and  continued  to  make  himself 
useful  in  matters  of  business  I could  not  doubt, 
but  it  was  also  manifest  that  he  had  obtained  a 
kind  of  mastery  over  the  Forbes’  which  they 
fi’etted  under  but  could  not  shake  off.  I thought 
the  health  and  spirits  of  both  father  and  daugh- 
ter seemed  to  be  gi*owing  worse  as  the  friend- 
ship thickened,  and  once  or  twice  something 
like  fear  had  appealed  in  Helen’s  look  when 
she  spoke  of  Mr.  Esthers.  Madame  Palivez 
had  warned  me,  and  I had  warned  them  in  vain 
about  the  Christmas  time.  Now  the  Spring 
was  drawing  on,  and  the  warning  was  confirm- 
ed in  a manner  I had  never  anticipated. 

The  discovery  at  first  was  but  a vague  im- 
pression, as  most  discoveries  are.  But  one 
Saturday  evening  I was  a little  late  in  my  ar- 
rival at  Notting  Hill  House.  The  days  were 
so  far  lengthened  that  windows  were  still  open, 
and  the  lamps  unlighted,  when  the  footman  told 
me  in  his  quiet  way  that  Mr.  and  Miss  Forbes 
were  in  the  library  waiting  for  me,  and  unan- 
nounced, as  usual,  I went  to  join  them.  If  I 
stepped  lightly  it  was  not  intended  to  surprise 
or  eavesdi’op;  but  in  the  old  silent  house  and 
deepening  twilight  I got  into  the  library  before 
they  were  aware.  Mr.  Forbes  was  sitting  at  the 
table  with  his  head  bowed  on  his  hands ; Helen 
was  close  beside  him,  with  her  thin  ai*m  twined 
about  his  neck,  as  if  to  soothe  and  comfort  him. 
I could  not  see  his  face,  but  there  was  an  ap- 
pearance of  strange  misery  about  the  man,  and 
unlike  as  they  wei*e,  his  attitude  and  manner  at 


once  brought  to  my  remembrance  Madame  Pa- 
livez sitting  on  the  low  seat  in  her  black-draped 
room,  with  the  chant  and  the  incense  coming 
up.  The  recollection  made  me  pause  at  the 
door.  I knew  they  were  not  conscious  of  my 
presence,  and  I heard  Helen  say,  “Dear  papa, 
what  grieves  and  troubles  you  so  ? I wish  Mr. 
Esthei's  could  keep  his  news  to  himself.  I wish 
he  had  never  come  here  at  all.  You  have  never 
been  yourself  since  he  began  to  look  so  much 
after  our  affairs.” 

“Nonsense,  Helen,  Mr.  Esthers  is  very 
friendly,”  said  the  banker,  raising  himself,  and 
trying  to  speak  composedly;  but  there  was  a 
queer  tremor  in  his  voice. 

“Yes,  papa;  but  he  should  not  be  talking 
and  writing  so  much  about  Dublin  to  you,  when 
he  sees  it  troubles  you,”  said  Helen. 

“It  does  not  trouble  me,  girl ; what  put  that 
in  your  head  ?”  Forbes  spoke  fiercely,  and  I saw 
Helen  shrink  back. 

“Nothing — oh  nothing,  papa — but  I thought 
it  grieved  you  on  account  of  poor  mamma  and 
my  little  brothers.” 

“Yes,  to  be  sure,  it  is  natural,”  said  Forbes, 
slowly. 

“ Natural  for  you  to  grieve,  papa;  and  yet,  as 
Rutherford  says,  you  know  they  are  safe  in  our 
Father’s  house  above,”  and  she  drew  close  again. 

“They  are,  they  are,  my  good,  my  gentle 
daughter,  and  you  will  go  to  meet  them  there,” 
said  Forbes,  throwing  his  arm  round  her. 

“ So  will  you,  papa.”  The  banker  uttered  a 
long,  deep  moan,  which  made  me  start,  as  he 
said,  “Oh,  Helen,  Helen,  I am  a sinful  man!” 

My  involuntary  movement  made  them  both 
turn.  In  shame  and  fear  of  being  caught  listen- 
ing, I pressed  forward,  and  was  received  with 
some  confusion,  though  fortunately  believed  to 
have  just  entered.  When  the  first  greeting  was 
over,  Forbes  took  the  opportunity  of  slipping  out 
to  recover  himself,  and  Helen  said  to  me,  in 
a low,  confidential  tone,  “Papa  has  been  great- 
ly troubled  to-day  by — by  some  talk  he  had  with 
Mr.  Esthers  about  our  old  house  in  Dublin. 
Talking  of  that  place  always  brings  his  great 
loss  to  mind,  and  I don’t  think  Mi*.  Esthers 
should  do  it ; but  it  was  some  news  he  heard 
about  repairs  and  alterations ; they  are  going 
to  make  livery-stables  of  our  old  house : it  was 
in  the  Liberties,  the  old  decaying  part  of  Dub- 
lin ; that  was  why  papa  left  it,  and  none  but 
poor  people  have  lived  thei*e  since  ; but  Madame 
Palivez’s  bank  stood  just  behind  oui*s,  at  the  end 
of  Greek  Alley ; her  private  door  opened  into 
the  alley,  though  the  front  was  in  Castle  Street. 
I remember  the  place  so  well,  though  it  is  all 
changed  now ; that  is  why  Mr.  Esthers  takes 
such  an  intei'est  in  it ; yet  I think  he  should  not 
speak  of  it  to  grieve  papa.” 

“He  certainly  should  not;  but  does  Esthers 
know  how  his  talk  affects  Mr.  Forbes  ?” 

“I  think  he  must;  papa  can’t  help  showing 
it  at  times,  and  I have  as  good  as  told  him.  To 
be  sure,  Mr.  Esthei's  might  not  have  understood 
me ; he  is  rather  blunt,  I think” — Helen  looked 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


115 


at  me  for  confirmation,  Vhich  I could  not  give 
her  on  that  point — “and  it  would  seem  strange, 
almost  unintelligible  to ’any  person  not  thor- 
oughly acquainted  with  him,  that  my  father, 
sensible  and  serious  as  you  know  he  is,  Mr.  La 
Touche,  should  be  so  troubled  at  the  mere  men- 
tion of  a house  which  he  occupied  fourteen 
years.  I remember  when  it  seemed  unaccount- 
able to  myself ; but  we  have  all  our  peculiari- 
ties and  our  weaknesses ; my  father  has  as  few 
as  any  man,  and  would  give  way  to  nothing  sin- 
ful, but  that  one  he  can  notsget  over;  indeed,  I 
think  it  grows  upon  him,  long  as  we  have  re- 
moved, and  there  may  be  a kind  of  reason 
for  it,  which  I would  not  mention  to  any  body 
but  yourself.  You  see,  our  house  in  Dublin 
was  a great  old  mansion,  built  when  the  Irish 
nobility  lived  in  that  part  of  the  town.  They 
call  the  place  Old  Kildare  Street:  it  stands  on 
low  ground  at  the  back  of  Castle  Street,  and  is 
part  of  the  Liberties ; but  nobles  and  gentry 
lived  there  as  late  as  the  volunteering  time,  and 
our  house  was  the  last  occupied  by  people  of 
rank  and  title — two  maiden  sisters,  the  last  of 
the  Galway  family ; one  of  their  ancestors  had 
built  it  for  a town  house,  before  the  rebellion  of 
1641,  in  the  fashion  which  some  say  Moorish 
settlers  brought  to  the  old  town  of  Galway  from 
the  opposite  coast  of  Spain.  I don’t  know  if 
you  have  ever  seen  such  houses,  but  they  are 
still  to  be  seen  in  old  Spanish  towns,  with  an 
open  court  in  the  centre,  into  which  all  the 
windows  look,  all  the  passages  lead,  and  most 
of  the  doors  open.  Ours  was  not  exactly  on 
that  model ; it  had  front  windows  looking  into 
the  street,  only  they  were  old-fashioned  and  nar- 
row ; within,  it  was  like  other  houses,  but  deco- 
rated in  an  antiquated  manner,  with  ceilings  of 
carved  wood,  walls  which  had  been  hung  with 
tapestry : there  were  fragments  of  it  remaining 
in  papa’s  time,  and  small  looking-glasses  let 
into  them  about  the  fireplaces  and  between  the 
windows.  * But  not  quite  in  the  middle,  rather 
at  the  back,  there  was  a small  open  court ; 
whether  it  had  been  made  to  light  the  rooms 
there — for  some  of  them  looked  into  it — or  to 
follow  the  Moorish  fashion  so  far,  nobody  could 
tell.  The  house  was  only  two  stories — rather 
one  story  and  an  attic,  at  that  part,  while  the 
front  was  four ; the  high  houses  of  Castle  Street 
completely  overshadowed  it,  and  there  was  a 
back  passage  leading  from  the  court  into  Greek 
Alley,  close  by  the  Palivez  private  door.  We 
did  not  occupy  the  whole  of  the  house  ; it  was  a 
great  deal  too  large  for  us ; papa  would  never 
let  any  part  of  it,  though  he  was  not  so  rich 
then  as  he  is  now ; perhaps  it  would  not  have 
been  wise  on  account  of  his  business ; he  kept 
the  bank,  and  we  lived  almost  entirely  in  the 
front  part ; nobody  liked  the  back  court,  it  was 
so  gloomy  and  out  of  the  way ; but  papa  kept  a 
private  office  there  to  make  up  bis  accounts  in. 
I believe  he  found  them  more  difficult  then  than 
he  does  now.  It  was  a low  room  on  the  ground 
floor,  communicating  with  no  other,  for  its  door 
and  window  opened  into  the  court,  and  close  by 


was  the  door  of  the  passage  leading  to  Greek 
Alley,  which  papa  always  kept  locked,  but  found 
very  convenient  for  going  in  and  out,  and  seeing 
people  on  private  affairs.  I don’t  pretend  to 
understand  business,  and  papa  has  never  told 
me  particularly,  but  I have  heard  him  say  he 
had  a hard  pull  for  it  when  he  and  my  mother 
set  up  in  Dublin ; his  Edinburg  family  had  not 
done  as  well  as  they  might  have  done  by  him  ; 
they  were  not  pleased  at  his  match,  because  my 
mother  had  no  fortune,  though  she  was  his 
equal,  being  a Fordyce  of  Aberdeenshire  ; he 
was  determined  to  make  his  way  in  the  world, 
and,  you  see,  he  has  made  it” — how  proud  of 
that  fact  the  spiritually-minded  lady  looked — 
“ but,  as  I was  s:  ying,  he  had  some  difficulty  at 
first,  that  made  him  take  the  large  old  house, 
because  he  got  it  at  a nominal  rent,  and  it  was 
convenient  to  the  Palivez,  with  whom  he  had 
frequent  transactions.  I know  papa  respects 
them  still  for  the  honorable,  considerate  way 
they  behaved  to  him  then,  and  I suppose  his  of- 
fice in  the  back  court  was  chosen  on  their  ac- 
count; but,  you  know,  the  Irish  are  supersti- 
tious— I beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  La  Touche,  I 
forgot  you  were  from  Ireland.” 

“Never  mind,  Miss  Forbes,  it  happens  to  be 
true ; they  are  superstitious,  and  had  a story,  I 
suppose,  about  the  Palivez.”  Miss  Forbes  did 
not  know  how  that  question  interested  me. 

“Partly  about  them,  and  partly  about  our 
old  house,”  she  said.  “In  the  time  of  the  two 
maiden  ladies  of  the  Galway  family,  Alexis  Pa- 
livez, Madame' s uncle,  I think,  had  owned  the 
bank ; they  and  he  were  acquainted ; their  for- 
tunes were  deposited  in  his  bank,  and  the  tale- 
tellers were  not  agreed  whether  the  cause  of 
quarrel  between  him  and  them  was  some  unfair 
play  regarding  the  money,  or  that  he  had  trifled 
with  the  affections  of  both  sisters ; but  the  whis- 
per went  that  Alexis  Palivez  had  died  suddenly 
after  a supper  with  them ; that  the  maiden  ladies 
never  were  themselves  after ; that  first  one  and 
then  the  other  became  eccentric,  or  rather  in- 
sane, and  lived  and  died  under  the  management 
of  keepers  employed  by  tlieir  noble  relatives  in 
the  rooms  of  the  back  court.  It  was  also  be- 
lieved by  the  lower  classes  of  Dublin  that  spec- 
tral appearances  had  been  seen  in  that  part  of 
the  house ; several  tenants  were  said  to  have 
been  frightened  out  of  it ; I suppose  the  people 
left  on  account  of  the  decay  and  downcoming 
of  Old  Kildare  Street ; but  the  low  rent  tempt- 
ed papa  to  take  it,  and  I wish  he  had  never 
done  so.  Don’t  suppose  I am  foolish  enough 
to  believe  in  Dublin  tales,  but,  Mr.  La  Touche, 
there  is  a weak  point  in  all  our  minds — none  of 
us  know  what  power  imagination  may  get  over 
us,  nor  what  truth  there  may  be  in  those  Old 
World  traditions.  Remember  that  even  the 
disciples  thought  they  saw  a spirit,  and  I don’t 
say  that  my  father  actually  saw  any  thing  su- 
pernatural ; he  has  never  told  me  so — indeed  he 
has  a remarkable  aversion  to  talking  on  the 
subject,  which  I own  frightens  me  more  than 
any  tale  could  do ; but  I know  that  some  time 


116 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


in  the  winter,  before  my  mother  died,  something 
made  him  withdraw  from  his  office  in  the  back 
court  so  quietly  that  we  never  knew  when  it 
was  done ; but  his  papers  were  removed,  the 
room  was  locked  up,  and  he  never  went  to  that 
part  of  the  house  after,  if  he  could  help  it. 
Then,  you  see,  poor  mamma  took  her  last  ill- 
ness and  died ; she  had  been  always  delicate, 
and  that  winter  was  too  damp  and  cold  for  her 
— the  doctor  said  so ; and  six  weeks  after  her 
funeral  my  two  little  brothers  were  cut  off  by 
scarlet  fever  at  the  school  in  Edinburg,  so  quick- 
ly that  we  never  saw  them  alive.  Oh  ! Mr.  La 
Touche,  it  was  a heavy  trial ; papa  has  never 
been  himself  since,  and  I think  it  is  all  bound 
up  in  his  memory  with  that  old  unlucky  house, 
and  whatever  made  him  leave  his  private  office; 
but  you  won’t  mention  what  I have  been  saying 
to  Esthers  or  any  body  ?” 

I had  scarcely  assured  Miss  Forbes  that  I 
never  repeated  any  thing  spoken  in  confidence, 
when  the  footman  came  to  say  dinner  was  reacly, 
and  the  master  waiting  for  us  in  the  dining- 
room. She  took  my  arm  as  familiarly  as  if  I 
had  been  her  brother — that  disclosure  about  her 
father  and  his  Dublin  house  had  brought  us 
nearer.  The  respect  and  esteem  which  every 
one  who  knew  Helen  Forbes  must  have  enter- 
tained for  her  was  increased  on  my  part  by  the 
half  hour’s  converse ; but  those  were  not  my  up- 
permost feelings.  Alexis  Palivez,  Madame’s  oft- 
mentioned  uncle,  had  come  in  a weird  fashion 
into  the  Forbes’  history ; he  was  long  gone  at 
the  time  the  banker  abandoned  his  private  office 
opening  into  the  back  court,  and  close  by  the 
passage  leading  to  Greek  Alley  beside  the  Pali- 
vez private  door.  Mr.  Forbes  had  once  intima- 
ted that  Madame  might  have  her  own  troubles ; 
was  it  art  and  part  in  them  that  weighed  down 
his  Scottish  heart  in  the  midst  of  wealth  and 
prosperity  — that  made  him  shrink  from  the 
mention  of  the  old  house,  and  made  Esthers 
ready  to  talk  of  it?  Had  the  private  office 
been  closed  after  Christmas  Eve,  and  could  Sal- 
ly Joyce  have  told  me  the  why  and  wherefore 
that  night  in  Berkeley  Square  ? 

We  found  Mr.  Forbes  composed  and  quiet  as 
usual.  He  half  smiled  on  Helen  and  me,  as  if 
pleased  to  see  us  coming  in  arm-and-arm,  apol- 
ogized to  me  for  his  abrupt  withdrawal,  saying, 
“he  had  been  slightly  indisposed,  but  was  bet- 
ter now,  and  made  no  ceremony  where  I was 
concerned.”  Of  course  I made  a very  slight 
comment.  Deep  or  doubtful  transactions  should 
be  lightly  passed  over  in  society.  The  dinner 
passed  as  other  dinners  had  done  at  Notting 
Hill  House.  We  were  all  sensible  and  serious  ; 
the  latter,  in  particular,  had  deepened  with  the 
Forbes’  of  late.  Esthers  was  spoken  of  by  both 
father  and  daughter.  It  was  still  as  a friend — 
still  as  one  of  whom  they  had  great  hopes  in  the 
conversion  line ; but  any  observer  would  have 
noticed  an  under-current  of  dislike  which  the 
good  people  themselves  might  not  have  been 
aware  of — a strong  inclination  to  take  him  to 
pieces,  and  a bright  look-out  for  some  apology 


or  cause  of  wrath  against  him.  Those  changes 
of  feeling  toward  my  manager  were  less  evident 
to  me  then  than  they  became  on  after-reflection. 
But  the  more  I pondered  on  that  evening’s  dis- 
closures, the  more  was  I certain  that  no  tangible 
reason  for  breaking  off  Esthers’  acquaintance 
would  ever  be  found  by  the  Forbes’.  He  had 
got  into  the  house,  and  would  take  care  not  to 
get  out  of  it.  Yet,  was  it  in  pursuit  of  an  heir- 
ess, or  to  spell  out  his  employer’s  secret  he  had 
wormed  himself  into  their  society?  There  was 
an  evidence  of  the  consolation  Madame  had 
given  herself  when  I told  her  of  my  interview 
in  Berkeley  Square.  Sally  Joyce  could  prove 
nothing,  or  her  brother  would  have  no  occasion 
to  take  such  pains  and  trouble  for  the  express 
purpose  of  ferreting  out  the  mystery,  which,  I 
had  no  doubt,  he  meant  to  turn  somehow  to  his 
own  advantage.  Under  how  many  lives  and 
houses  -did  the  roots  of  that  Upas-tree  extend  ? 
I had  never  dreamt  of  a hidden  link  between 
the  Forbes’  and  Madame  Palivez,  much  note  as 
they  took  of  each  other,  and  often  as  I had  ob- 
served it ; but  now  it  was  plain  to  me  that  such 
a connection — one  of  memory  and  of  fear — did 
exist.  Helen  had  told  me  all  .she  knew,  but  not 
all  that  was  to  be  known  — perhaps  not  all  that 
she  imagined  or  suspected.  Far  as  Forbes  con- 
fided in  his  daughter,  and  well  as  she  deserved 
his  confidence,  there  was  a dark  spot  in  his  life 
and  memory  kept  from  her  knowledge.  And 
what  could  that  dark  spot  be  ? The  man  was 
honest,  pious,  and  benevolent — the  least  likely 
to  be  tempted  into  vice  or  crime.  But  he  had 
a hard  pull  when  first  setting  up  in  Dublin.  He 
owed  something  to  the  honorable  and  consid- 
erate conduct  of  the  Palivez.  Was  there  any 
bond  between  them  and  him  like  that  which  my 
sister’s  honest  instincts  had  suggested  and  warn- 
ed me  against?  What  I would  have  given  to 
know  the  whole  history  of  that  private  office  in 
the  back  court,  and  its  convenient  communica- 
tion with  Greek  Alley!  Esthers  would  make 
it  out.  Bound  by  none  of  my  scruples,  and 
doubtless  less  in  the  dark,  he  had  hit  on  the 
surest  track  for  discovering.  Once  his  footing 
was  made  sure  in  Forbes’s  house,  the  privacy 
and  retirement  in  which  he  and  his  daughter 
lived ; the  absence  of  those  worldly  vanities 
and  amusements  which  they  eschewed,  but  which 
served  to  occupy  other  people’s  time,  and  furnish 
them  with  subjects  of  conversation  ; the  frequent 
opportunities  for  observation  and  extraction 
which  Esthers  must  have  in  their  serious  and 
solitary  evenings  between  the  sermon-reading 
and  the  religious  exercises — all  could  be  turned 
to  account,  and  he  was  the  man  to  do  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

ESTHERS  ON  THE  CARPET. 

I went  home,  pondering  the  whole  subject, 
but  could  come  to  no  farther  conclusion  than 
the  certainty  of  the  Jew’s  success  and  the  con- 
sequent peril  of  Madame  Palivez.  Let  me  ac- 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


117 


knowledge  that,  with  all  their  friendship  to  me 
and  my  family,  the  Forbes’  had  never  interested 
me  so  deeply  as  now,  when  they  seemed  to  have 
part  and  lot  with  her;  their  sombre  piety,  then- 
subdued  spirits,  which  I had  sometimes  found  so 
dull  and  oppressive,  took  a different  and  almost 
romantic  aspect  from  the  thought  that  they  had 
grown  up  in  the  shadow  of  her  life’s  secret.  If 
it  were  so,  how  differently  the  same  influence 
told  on  their  strongly -contrasted  characters! 
They  were  never  out  of  the  cloud.  No  man 
could  tell  whence  it  rose  or  why  it  had  fall- 
en ; “but  it  rested  on  the  Forbes’  perpetually.  I 
had  noticed  the  effect  long  before  I began  to 
guess  at  the  cause.  Hut  the  stately  lady,  always 
so  easy,  graceful,  and  queen-like,  even  in  the 
midst  of  business,  with  the  ready  smile  and  the 
fair  open  face,  on  which  time  had  made  no  fur- 
row and  sorrow  left  no  shade,  ruling  her  bank 
and  receiving  her  most  considerable  clients  in 
the  Eastern  magnificence  of  those  luxurious 
back  rooms;  receiving  fashionable  company  in 
Curzon  Street,  going  forth  to  balls,  parties,  and 
plays ; envied  for  her  wealth,  her  gayety,  and, 
above  all,  her  beauty — I had  no  doubt  of  that, 
and  never  suspected  of  the  black-draped  rooms, 
the  deep  mourning  robe,  the  incense  burned, 
and  the  psalms  chanted  at  midnight.  People 
who  have  got  such  burdens  generally  retire,  I 
suppose  from  an  instinctive  dread  of  some  end 
of  the  clew  coming  out,  and  being  caught  at. 
But  how  much  safer  is  the  gay  and  public  life 
when  it  happens  to  have  bendings  beyond  the 
common  ! Esthers  was  profiting  by  the  Forbes’ 
mistake  in  that  respect ; perhaps  not  a mistake 
either,  but  a necessity  with  them.  Scottish 
born,  prudent,  and  strong-hearted  as  they  were, 
the  regal  pride  and  high,  buoyant  spirit  of  the 
bank  lady  was  not  given  to  the  inhabitants  of 
Notting  Hill  House.  But  w-ould  not  the  Jew’s 
possible  discoveries  compromise  her?  Should 
I not  give  her  warning?  But  of  what?  There 
was  more  difficulty  here  than  in  Sally  Joyce’s 
demonstration.  Yet  that  incident  had  made  us 
better  friends,  at  least  more  intimate,  and  I 
would  take  the  first  opportunity  to  let  her  know 
that  Esthers  was  endeavoring  to  fish  out  some- 
thing about  the  Forbes’;  that  there  was  some- 
thing to  be  fished  out,  and  that  they  would  not 
be  sorry  to  lose  his  acquaintance. 

Where  there  is  a will  there’s  a way,  and  I 
found  one  on  the  following  Sunday  evening. 
It  was  never  difficult  to  bring  Esthers  on  the 
carpet.  Madame  was  always  attentive  to  any 
observation  on  him,  and  from  the  sound  of  the 
evening  church-bells,  which  reached  us  in  her 
back  rooms,  I took  occasion  to  remark  first  on 
the  church-going  habits  of  London  ; then  on 
the  devout  manner  in  which  my  Scottish  friends 
passed  their  Sunday  evenings  ; thirdly,  on  their 
admission  of  Esthers  ; and  lastly,  on  his  fishing, 
and  their  consequent  willingness  to  give  him  up. 
Madame  listened  to  me  and  smiled.  The  state- 
ment, though  made  as  plainly  as  possible,  had 
no  terrors  for  her.  She  spoke  seriously,  but 
without  fear  or  personal  interest. 


“I  have  always  thought  there  was  some  un- 
commonly dark  closet  in  that  house.  Remem- 
ber, I have  the  best  opinion  of  your  friends,  Lu- 
cien  ; but  their  seriousness  and  retirement  have 
something  penitential  in  them.  They  have  been 
unlucky;  that  is  the  true  term  for  their  difficul- 
ty, whatever  shape  it  might  take  at  British  tea- 
tables — ay,  and  % in  law-courts.  Why  do  you 
start?  I am  not  bringing  accusations  against 
the  people.  If  I knew  all  that  Esthers  has  to 
find  out,  do  you  suppose  I am  the  person  to  pub- 
lish it — to  mention  it  at  all,  except  between 
ourselves  ?” 

I had  supposed  nothing  of  the  kind ; but  all 
my  conclusions,  all  the  fabric  of  guess-work  and 
suspicion  I had  built  on  what  she  called  the 
Forbes’  difficulty,  was  overthrown.  I could  not 
help  looking  her  keenly  in  the  face  to  see  if 
there  w-as  any  recollection  of  the  back  court 
and  the  private  office  there,  but  she  returned 
my  look  with  such  a frank  and  kindly  one : 
“Now,  Lucien,  you  are  fishing  in  your  turn. 
You  think  I had  some  interest  in  sending 
Esthers  to  worm  out  Mr.  Forbes’s  affairs.  You 
think  it  is  something  connected  with  his  busi- 
ness, and  perhaps  with  mine,  that  troubles  the 
man  and  his  daughter.  I tell  you  it  is  not. 
You  must  have  observed,  for  I did,  that  the 
skeleton  has  been  in  their  house  for  many  a 
year  before  you  got  acquainted  with  them.  I 
grant  they  look  more  occupied  with  it  of  late, 
but  that  may  be  Esthers’  raking  up  the  old 
bones  to  serve  his  own  purposes.  Yes,  trust  me. 
he  goes  there  for  nothing  else.  I guessed  it. 
would  come  to  that,  and  warned  you  for  their 
sakes.  You  warned  them,  I know,  for  you  are 
an  honest  fellow,  and  have  nothing  in  common 
with  our  manager;  but  these  pious,  penitential 
people  are  the  proper  subjects  for  pryers,  and 
always  sure  to  betray  themselves.” 

“ I can’t  make  it  out  why  Esthers  should 
take  it  into  his  head  to  talk  so  much  of  their 
old  house  in  Dublin,  and  why  that  should  an- 
noy Mr.  Forbes,”  said  I,  making  a desperate 
plunge  into  my  own  puzzle. 

“ Their  old  house ! It  was  in  Kildare  Street, 
almost  behind  ours  — a large  rambling  place, 
rather  out  of  repair,  and  said  to  be  haunted,  be- 
cause two  poor  ladies,  the  last  descendants  of 
the  Earls  of  Gahvay,  lost  their  senses  there, 
partly  because  they  never  had  much  hold  of 
them,  and  partly  on  account  of  securities  they 
had  given  to  our  bank  in  behalf  of  an  ill-doing 
nephew  who  fell  in  a duel  at  Cork.  I remem- 
ber it.  Forbes  had  the  house  cheap  ; nobody 
else  could  be  got  to  live  in  it.  The  Scotchman 
wras  beginning  business,  and  determined  to  get 
on.  He  was  poor  enough  then,  he  is  rich 
enough  now,  and  wealth  must  be  paid  for.  It 
commands  and  gets  the  heaviest  price  from  us 
all.  Yes,  Lucien,  if  it  ever  comes  your  way,  as 
I believe  it  will,  remember  that.  Our  old  my- 
thology holds  good  in  spite  of  the  creeds  and 
forms  that  have  supplanted  it  among  the  nations. 
Plutus  and  the  infernal  gods  still  dispense  the 
gifts  of  fortune,  but  they  can  be  propitiated 


118 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


only  with  blood.”  The  last  words  were  uttered 
slowly,  and  in  a sort  of  whisper,  which  made 
her  voice  sound  somewhat  like  the  sighing  of 
the  wind,  which  came  through  the  open  con- 
servatory that  soft  spring  evening.  We  sat 
silent  for  some  minutes,  and  the  church  bells 
rang  on. 

When  Madame  spoke  again,  it  was  to  change 
,the  subject.  I had  nothing  more  to  say  on  it. 
My  surmises  were  all  at  fault.  If  her  secret  and 
the  Forbes’  had  any  connection,  she  was  determ- 
ined I should  not  find  it  out,  and  must  have 
had  some  assurance  that  Esthers  would  not,  for 
it  was  manifest  she  did  not  fear  him  in  that 
quarter.  The  fact  relieved  my  mind ; it  was 
for  her  and  not  for  the  Forbes’  that  I had  been 
alarmed.  They  were  my  friends.  I would 
have  done  any  thing  to  serve  them,  to  return  or 
acknowledge  their  kindness  ; but  if  there  were  a 
skeleton  in  their  house,  as  Madame  remarked, 
it  did  not  interest  me  except  in  the  way  of  curi- 
osity. Perhaps  I had  magnified  matters,  too, 
in  my  fancy,  so  full  of  Madame  Palivez ; per- 
haps Helen’s  account  was  the  whole  of  the  busi- 
ness. Retired,  eccentric  people,  like  her  and 
her  father,  were  apt  to  dwell  a good  deal  on  and 
make  much  of  trifles.  They  had  taken  to  Est- 
hers in  spite  of  my  warnings  ; they  were  begin- 
ning to  find  him  troublesome ; the  manager 
would  be  so  wherever  he  got  the  opportunity ; 
but  Madame  was  safe,  and  I would  wait  on. 
She  would  tell  me  her  secret  some  day. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

MELROSE  MORTON  TURNS  UP  IN  LONDON. 

Easter  had  passed,  the  London  season  was 
opening,  Madame  was  going  to  her  house  in 
Curzon  Street.  That  made  no  difference  to  me. 
I was  not  one  of  her  fashionable  friends.  But 
the  villa  where  I had  watched  with  her  in  that 
black  midnight  hour  would  be  open  too,  Avith 
its  myrtles  and  roses.  She  would  be  there  as 
she  had  been  in  the  by-gone  summer,  and  I 
would  go  there  on  Sundays,  more  than  ever  her 
friend. 

I was  thinking  of  that  going  home  from  the 
bank  one  very  wet  evening.  Esthers  had  kept 
me  late  over  some  American  accounts.  I had 
missed  the  coach ; got  wet  to  the  skin  while 
looking  for  it,  and  then  walked  all  the  way. 
There  were  few  lamps  on  the  Bayswater  Road, 
and  at  the  darkest  part,  close  by  my  own  street, 
I almost  ran  against  a man  who  stopped  me, 
with  an  anxious  inquiry  for  his  way  to  Blooms- 
bury. I did  not  see  his  face  distinctly,  but  the 
voice  brought  me  to  a stand-still.  “ Blooms- 
bury ?”  said  I — “ you  are  miles  out  of  the  way.” 

“Indeed,  sir.  Will  you  have  the  goodness 
to  tell  me  how  I can  get  back  ? My  lodgings 
are  there,  and  I am  a stranger  in  London.” 

Before  he  had  finished,  I knew  the  voice,  and 
I knew  the  man,  for  it  was  my  early  friend, 
Melrose  Morton. 


“Do  you  know  me?”  said  I,  grasping  his 
hand  ; but  recognition  had  flashed  on  him  at  the 
same  moment. 

“ Know  yon  ? Yes,  Lucien  La  Touche,  I do 
now,  though  I did  not  at  first.  The  rain  is  so 
heavy,  I am  so  bewildered  here,  and  I never  ex- 
pected to  see  you.” 

“Why  not?  I live  hard  by,  and  you  will 
come  home  with  me.  Rlioda  will  be  delighted 
to  see  you.  But  why  did  not  you  write  to  me  ? 
why  didn’t  you  let  me  know  you  were  coming 
to  London?  and  what  on  earth  made  you  take 
lodgings  in  Bloomsbury,  when  you  knew  we 
lived  in  Bayswater  ? I must  get  that  out  of 
you,  and  we  must  get  out  of  the  rain.  Come 
along,  and  we’ll  astonish  Rhoda.” 

1 ‘ Do  tell  me  my  way,  Lucien.  I’ll  come  and 
see  you  some  other  time;”  and  he  half  drew 
back  as  I pulled  his  arm  into  mine.  Something 
strange  had  come  over  Morton  ; that  was  my 
first  conclusion.  It  might  be  the  bewilderment 
of  London,  and  his  surprise.  It  was  best  to 
take  him  home  anyway,  and  saying  “ Nonsense, 
you’ll  come  now,”  I hurried  my  grave  and  sen- 
ior friend  along  to  No.  9. 

Rhoda  wa^  astonished  to  see  me  bringing 
home  a stranger ; but  she  had  heard  so  much 
about  Morton,  and  seen  so  many  of  his  letters, 
that  the  mere  mention  of  his  name  made  my 
good  sister  welcome  him  like  an  old  friend,  and 
she  and  her  faithful  satellite  Nelly  were  help- 
ing off  his  wet  coat  in  a minute.  Morton  was 
not  unwilling  to  stay,  great  as  had  been  his  haste 
to  Bloomsbury,  when  we  chanced  to  meet  under 
the  pouring  rain.  I thought  he  looked  happy 
to  find  himself  under  our  roof  and  in  our  com- 
pany, when  the  first  confusion  or  surprise  had 
worn  off,  and  he  and  I,  both  made  presentable 
with  the  dry  clothes  remaining  in  my  wardrobe, 
were  seated  comfortably  in  the  little  parlor, 
where  Rhoda  had  lit  up  a bright  fire,  spread  a 
hospitable  table,  and  busied  herself  to  entertain 
her  brother’s  friend.  Morton  was  changed,  and 
doubtless  so  was  I,  since  we  parted  on  board  the 
Franklin ; but  he  looked  older  than  he  should, 
and  thinner  too.  The  cheek-bones  of  his  Scot- 
tish face  were  more  sharply  defined ; there  was 
a slight  sprinkling  of  gray  in  his  hair,  and  his 
likeness  to  Forbes  was  so  remarkably  increased 
in  consequence,  that  it  struck  me  at  the  first 
clear  sight  of  him.  They  wrere  cousins,  without 
doubt,  however  they  might  have  quarreled ; but 
what  could  have  been  Morton’s  motive  for  keep- 
ing his  coming  to  London  from  me  ? We  had 
not  written  to  each  other  so  frequently  of  late  ; 
our  friendship  could  not  be  said  to  have  cooled  ; 
but  time  and  distance  are  chilling  things.  Cor- 
respondence between  England  and  America  was 
not  so  rapid  then  as  it  is  now,  and  I had  to  re- 
proach myself  with  being  so  occupied  about  Old 
Broad  Street  and  its  great  lady,  that  his  last 
letter  had  remained  unanswered  full  six  months. 
Probably  that  had  offended  him,  though  Morton 
was  too  sensible  to  take  offense  readily,  and  all 
our  old  friendship  seemed  to  warm  up  again  with 
the  light  of  my  home  fire  and  the  kindly  minis- 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


119 


trations  of  my  sister.  “How  strange  it  was, 
Lucien,”  lie  said,  after  looking  on  me,  my 
surroundings,  and  Rhoda,  with  the  earnest, 
friendly  gaze  of  former  times,  “ how  strange  it 
was  that  I should  have  taken  the  wrong  coach, 
got  set  down  at  Tyburn  Gate,  and  wandered  so 
far  out  of  my  way  in  the  heavy  rain,  so  near 
your  house,  and  just  in  time  to  meet  you  coming 
home !” 

“Strangely  fortunate,”  said  I;  “but  why 
did  you  not  write  to  me  ? why  did  you  not  let 
me  know  you  were  coming  ? and  why  did  you 
not  come  here  in  the  first  instance  ?” 

“ I was  obliged  to  come,”  said  Morton,  skill- 
fully evading  my  charge,  “ on  account  of  some 
property  left  me  by  my  uncle,  one  of  my  moth- 
er’s family;  he  was  in  the  Stamp  Office  here, 
and  his  property  is  all  in  houses,  mostly  about 
Bloomsbury.  The  affairs  are  rather  tangled 
between  lawyers  and  tenants,  but  I hope  to  get 
something  out  of  them,  as  I am  the  only  legatee. 
You  have  not  heard,”  and  a shadow  of  deep 
sorrow  passed  over  his  calm  face,  “ that  my 
mother  is  gone.”  The  announcement  of  death 
always  startles  us,  though  it  is  the  one  thing  to 
be  expected.  It  astonished  and  grieved  me  to 
hear  that  the  kindly  and  hospitable  old  dame, 
to  whom  my  lonely  childhood  owed  so  much, 
Morton’s  good  and  well-beloved  mother,  the 
only  friend,  almost  the  only  associate  he  had, 
was  taken  from  him. 

“ The  climate  of  America  was  too  much  for 
her,  I fear,  ” said  Melrose,  making  a strong  ef- 
fort to  recover  himself  from  the  backward  rush 
of  sorrow  which  came  with  our  meeting  and 
talk  ; “its  great  extremes  of  summer’s  heat  and 
winter’s  cold  are  trying  to  any  constitution  ; 
and  it  may  be  weak-minded,  but  I could  not 
stay  there  alone,  though  the  Mortons  are  kind 
enough,  and  wanted  to  promote  me  to  Mr. 
Alexander’s  place.  The  old  man  is  gone.  An- 
drew is  head  master  now,  and  the  grammar- 
school  is  as  full  as  ever  you  saw  it,  Lucien.” 

“Will  you  settle  in  London,  then?”  said  I. 
It  would  have  been  a joyful  thought  to  me 
once,  but  now  the  near  neighborhood  of  the 
friend  who  had  warned  me  of  the  Joyces,  though 
not  dreaded,  was  not  exactly  wished  for ; it 
might  be  difficult  to  keep  my  goings  to  Old 
Broad  Street  and  all  that  concerned  them  from 
him.  That  broken  and  canceled  engagement 
which  lost  my  uncle’s  grace  had  made  us  stran- 
gers long  ago  in  Baltimore,  and  now  I had 
something  still  harder  to  explain. 

“ I don’t  know,”  said  Morton,  but  he  looked 
as  if  he  dicj ; “ the  business  will  be  a good  while 
in  getting  settled,  and  I had  better  be  on  the 
spot.  It  was  an  old  cherished  design  of  mine 
to  go  back  and  settle  in  the  quiet  country  town 
where  I was  born,  if  ever  fortune  enabled  me, 
and  that  may  be  the  case  at  last.” 

“ But,  in  the  mean  time,  you  will  come  and 
stay  with  us,”  said  I;  “ there  is  room  enough 
in  our  house,  and  Rhoda  will  be  kind  to  you.” 

“I  am  sure  she  would  be  kind  to  any  body,” 
said  Morton  (my  sister  was  out  of  the  room  just 


then);  “but  I had  better  stay  in  Bloomsbury; 
there  is  a deal  of  lawyers  seeing  to  be  done.  I 
am  a crusty  old  bachelor  now,  and  poor  com- 
pany for  a bonnie  lass,  as  we  used  to  say  in 
Scotland.” 

“ You  forget  that  I am  here,  Mr.  Morton, 
and  your  cousins  the  Forbes  live  within  ten 
minutes’ walk.”  I had  spoken  without  think- 
ing, but  the  sudden  expression  of  alarm,  or  rath- 
er terror,  that  came  over  his  face  made  me  stop 
short. 

“ Lucien,”  he  said,  speaking  low  and  hurried- 
ly, “I  know  they  do,  but  I don’t  want  to  see 
them,  and  they  don’t  want  to  see  me.  Private 
and  family  reasons  which  can  not  be  explained 
or  entered  on  make  it  best  for  us  to  avoid  each 
other.  Will  you  act  a friend’s  part,  as  you 
have  always  done,  and  let  us  remain  separate 
and  at  peace  ? Do  not  speak  of  me  to  them,  or 
of  them  to  me  ; it  is  a strange  thing  to  ask,  but, 
Lucien,  it  is  the  kindest  thing  you  can  do  to 
both  parties ; and,  now  that  we  are  alone,  I will 
confess  that  it  was  nothing  but  fear  of  the  whole 
subject  which  kept  me  from  writing  to  you 
about  my  coming,  or  letting  you  know  that  I 
was  in  London.  But  Providence  directs  our 
steps,  however  we  may  take  them  ; you  and  I 
have  met,  and  I must  lay  that  obligation  on  your 
friendship.  ” 

“It  is  a small  one,”  said  I;  “there  is  no 
use  in  denying  that  it  seems  strange,  but  any 
request  of  yours  is  a sufficient  bond  for  me.  I 
know  the  motive  is  a good  one,  though  you  do 
not  think  proper  to  explain  it,  and  I promise  to 
keep  distance  and  silence  between  you  and  the 
Forbes’.  ” 

“Thank  you,  Lucien,  thank  you,”  said  Mel- 
rose, leaning  back  in  his  chair  with  a sigh  of  re- 
lief. The  man  was  weary  and  desolate — not 
unlucky,  perhaps,  for  he  had  got  a legacy,  but 
what  a desperate  and  impenetrable  quarrel  was 
that  between  him  and  the  serious  banker  ? Rho- 
da came  back,  and  I observed  her  hair  had  been 
newly  smoothed.  Morton  congratulated  us  on 
being  found  so  comfortable,  told  me  that  my 
uncle  was  getting  very  old-looking,  and  not 
much  improved  by  his  marriage ; that  he  had 
removed  to  one  of  the  principal  boarding-houses 
in  Baltimore,  the  company  in  West  Street  be- 
ing too  dull  for  the  quondam  Mrs.  Maynard  and 
her  son,  who  every  body  said  would  be  able  to 
spend  the  old  gentleman’s  gatherings.  He  had 
a great  deal  more  news  about  the  Mortons  and 
my  grammar-school  acquaintances.  He  heard 
the  whole  history  of  Rosanna’s  defalcation,  but 
not  my  acquiescence,  which,  however,  he  seemed 
to  understand  and  expect,  and  he  assured  me, 
almost  in  the  words  of  his  cousin  in  Notting 
Hill  House,  that  I had  missed  her  well.  Mor- 
ton knew  me  better  than  Forbes  did,  for  our  in- 
timacy was  earlier.  He  did  not  know,  and  he 
could  not  guess,  that  the  spell  had  been  broken 
by  a stronger  one  ; but  he  perceived  that  my 
mind  had  changed,  and  required  no  condolence 
on  being  left  to  wear  the  willow.  There  was  n<> 
more  coldness,  distance,  or  offense  with  himself; 


120 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


it  was  the  Forbes’  and  not  me  or  my  sister  he 
wanted  to  avoid.  An  unceremonious  invitation 
made  him  consent  to  stay  for  the  night,  which 
continued  to  rain  ; we  discussed  every  thing  ex- 
cept that  one  forbidden  subject  before  we  re- 
tired. We  met  next  morning  at  breakfast,  as 
we  used  to  meet  in  the  old  grammar-school  days, 
and  set  out  together  in  the  clear  fresh  morning, 
I for  the  bank  and  he  for  Bloomsbury.  No  in- 
vitation could  induce  him  to  make  our  house 
his  home ; and  guessing  it  was  because  the 
Forbes’  were  too  near  it,  I did  not  press  the 
matter. 

“You  are  right  not  to  ask  him,  Lucien,  dear,” 
said  Rhoda,  when  I explained  the  case  as  well 
as  I could  explain  it  to  her  in  private  ; “ quar- 
rels between  relations  is  always  the  worst  kind 
of  wars  ; and  it  is  strange.  Mr.  Forbes  is  such 
a very  good  Christian  man  ; I am  sure  it  wasn’t 
his  daughter’s  fault ; and  your  friend  Mr.  Mor- 
ton is  oncommon  sensible ; but  they’re  Scotch, 
you  see,  and  stiff-necked,  as  our  father  used  to 
say.”  It  was  not  a complimentary  conclusion 
regarding  my  friends,  but  it  seemed  to  me,  as 
well  as  to  Rhoda,  the  only  way  of  accounting 
for  wrath  so  long  and  inveterate  that  neither 
party  wished  to  see  or  hear  of  the  other  after  the 
lapse  of  eighteen  years.  To  my  own  knowl- 
edge, Morton  had  been  in  Baltimore  that  length 
of  time,  and,  according  to  Helen’s  statement,  the 
dispute  had  taken  place  in  Dublin.  Rhoda  guess- 
ed, and  I made  sure  that  it  was  not  her  fault ; 
she  had  spoken  kindly  of  her  cousin  Melrose. 
He  had  told  me  that  the  cause  of  separation  was 
a family  one,  and  something  very  particular  it 
must  have  been,  since  Forbes  thought  proper 
to  keep  it  from  his  daughter.  At  any  rate,  I 
could  not  make  peace  between  them,  and  sound 
policy  as  well  as  honor  bound  me  to  keep  the 
promise  I had  made  to  Morton,  so  the  people  of 
Notting  Hill  House  heard  nothing  of  his  exist- 
ence, and  I saw  no  sign  that  they  knew  of  his 
being  in  town. 

The  warm  welcome  and  shelter  found  in  our 
parlor  that  wet  evening  seemed  to  have  impress- 
ed my  early  friend  favorably.  Though  Melrose 
would  not  stay  with  us,  he  was  willing  to  come. 
Evening  after  evening  I found  him  at  the  bank 
door,  and  he  went  home  with  me  ; Rhoda  made 
him  welcome,  and  I gloried  in  the  opportunity, 
now  that  he  had  no  home  in  London,  of  return- 
ing his  and  his  mother’s  hospitality  to  my  child- 
hood, when  it  had  no  home  but  that  of  the 
grammar-school  in  Baltimore.  He  came  and 
sat  with  us  at  hearth  and  board ; and  though 
he  would  not  tell  me  his  cause  of  quarrel  with 
Forbes,  Melrose  and  I got  back  to  the  old  famil- 
iar footing  on  which  we  stood  before  the  Joyces 
•came  in  my  way,  and  I had  but  one  difficulty, 
namely,  to  keep  from  his  knowledge  the  direc- 
tion of  my  goings  on  Sunday  evenings.  Though 
Scottish  and  Presbyterian,  seriously-minded  and 
truly  religious,  Morton  was  neither  strait-laced 
nor  penitential  like  the  Forbes’,  and  being  a 
stranger  in  the  dullest  of  all  towns  on  Sabbath- 
days,  it  went  against  my  conscience  not  to  ask 


him  to  No.  9 ; but  then  one  must  give  up  one’s 
fairy-land  in  the  villa,  which  was  not  to  be 
thought  of ; and,  friend  as  he  was  and  had  been, 
Melrose  was  not  the  man  to  hear  that  tale.  He 
had  a quarrel  to  keep  from  me,  and  I had  a 
friendship  to  keep  from  him.  I think  he  guess- 
ed there  was  something  in  the  wind  at  last,  but 
Morton  had  given  up  investigating ; keeping 
clear  of  the  Forbes’  and  realizing  his  uncle’s 
houses  in  Bloomsbury  seemed  to  be  business 
enough  for  him  ; he  came  and  went,  asked  no 
questions,  and  we  continued  to  be  fast  friends. 


CHAPTER  XNNVIII. 

FORBES  IS  ILL,  AND  DISTRUSTS  ESTHERS. 

I had  not  observed  it,  but  Rhoda  did,  that 
Miss  Forbes  latterly  called  atour  house  less 
frequently  than  she  used  to  do.  “ It’s  not  get- 
ting proud  and  high  she  is,  I am  sure,”  said 
my  sensible  sister  ; “Miss  Forbes  is  above  such 
foolery;  but,  Lucien,  I don’t  like  her  looks  at 
all ; there  is  something  past  the  common  troub- 
ling that  young  lady,  for  all  her  father’s  riches 
and  her  own  goodness.  I have  heard  her  sigh 
in  this  room  as  if  her  heart  were  like  to  break, 
when  she  came  in  from  visiting  the  poor  people 
in  the  village,  and  didn’t  know  it  herself,  being 
so  used  to  the  sorrow  and  taken  up  with  it;  I 
don’t  know  what  it  is,  Lucien,  but  there  is  some- 
thing wrong  and  getting  wronger  about  that 
house ; it  is  not  Mr.  Forbes’s  business,  for  Watt 
Wilson  says  there  is  not  such  a safe  place  in 
London,  barring  the  Bank  of  England;  but 
Nelly  tells  me  she  sees  him  coming  home,  when 
she  is  out  on  arrands,  sometimes,  and  he  don’t 
look  a bit  more  cheerful  than  his  daughter,  but, 
she  thinks,  woi'se  and  more  down-hearted.” 

Similar  reflections  had  occurred  to  me  so  oft- 
en that  I took  little  notice  of  Rhoda’s  remarks, 
till  one  Saturday  evening  when  I came  home, 
intending  to  go  over  to  Notting  Hill  House,  my 
sister  informed  me  that  Mr.  Forbes’s  footman 
had  come  with  a message.  Miss  Helen  sent 
him  to  say  that  her  father  was  very  ill,  but  she 
hoped  I would  come  over  to  see  him  in  the 
course  of  the  evening.  The  Forbes’  kept  up  se- 
rious gentility,  and  so  did  I in  my  intercourse 
with  them,  intimate  though  it  was ; the  strictest 
social  regulations  must  be  preserved  wherever 
Miss  Forbes  had  sway,  as  she  undoubtedly  had 
in  her  father’s  house  ; it  was  not  proper  for  her 
to  receive  me,  but  I was  expected  to  go  over  and 
see  Mr.  Forbes.  I went  accordingly  at  a dis- 
creet hour  after  their  dinner-time.  The  house 
was,  if  possible,  quieter  than  usual ; I saw  no- 
body but  the  serious  footman,  who  said,  in  reply 
to  my  inquiries,  that  his  master  had  not  been 
able  to  go  to  business  for  two  days,  and  was  then 
confined  to  his  bed ; would  I please  to  walk  up 
to  his  room  ? I walked  up ; it  was  a back 
room  on  the  second  floor  of  the  old  house,  with 
a low  ceiling,  and  two  narrow  windows,  as  our 
ancestors  were  accustomed  to  form  their  bed- 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


121 


rooms.  I had  seen  the  wealthy  banker  dine 
sparingly,  and  water  the  good  wine  he  pressed 
so  hospitably  on  me,  but  I was  not  prepared  for 
the  anchorite  meagreness  and  discomfort  of  his 
chamber ; its  floor  had  no  carpets,  its  windows 
no  hangings ; two  coarse  blinds  kept  out  the 
sun  or  moonshine  ; no  fire  seemed  to  have  ever 
been  in  the  grate  ; there  was  a bathing-tub,  two 
cushionless  chairs,  an  uncovered  deal  table,  with 
a razor-case,  a small  shaving-glass,  and  a Bible 
on  it ; and  in  the  middle  of  the  room  a plain, 
curtainless  iron  bedstead,  w ith  mattress  and  fit- 
tings of  the  hardest  and  coarsest  description  : 
on  that  bed  the  rich  Mr.  Forbes  was  lying  ; and 
close  by,  reading,  I suppose,  a sermon-book  by 
the  light  of  the  one  candle  which  made  the 
dreary  room  look  still  more  dreary,  sat  his 
daughter  and  heiress.  Sick  and  sad  he  looked, 
but  the  latter  more  than  the  former,  and  in  ex- 
pressing my  concern  and  making  the  requisite 
inquiries,  I got  over  the  appearance  of  surprise 
at  his  accommodation. 

“ Sit  down,  Lucien  ; I am  glad  to  see  you.  It 
W’as  kind  of  you  to  come,  lad,  ” said  the  banker, 
after  shaking  hands  with  me — how  thin  and  yet 
muscular  his  hand  was — and  Helen,  as  she 
placed  the  only  remaining  chair  for  me,  said, 
“ You  will  not  find  this  room  very  comfortable, 
I fear,  but  it  is  papa’s  peculiarity  to  have  it  so 
furnished.  I could  never  induce  him  to  make 
any  improvement.”  I sat  down,  she  closed  her 
book  and  glided  away,  and  Mr.  Forbes  and  I got 
into  conversation.  It  wras  merely  on  business 
matters  as  they  stood  in  the  city,  the  news  of 
the  day,  and  his  own  illness,  of  which  he  did 
not  give  a very  distinct  account;  but  Forbes 
spoke  little  on  personal  subjects  : it  was  a cold, 
he  thought,  or  influenza ; the  spring  season  did 
not  agree  with  him  of  late  ; he  was  getting  old, 
and  these  were  warnings  that  the  clay  taberna- 
cle was  to  be  taken  down.  I ventured  to  hint 
that  more  comforts  in  his  sleeping  apartment 
might  be  advisable,  but  Forbes  stopped  me. 

“No,  no,  Lucien,  such  things  don’t  suit  me; 
I don’t  say  a word  against  them  for  other  peo- 
ple, neither  do  I hold  the  papistical  notion  of 
merit  in  self-denial  or  mortification  ; but  I need 
them,  Lucien,  I need  them  ; the  old  Adam  in 
me  requires  to  be  kept  under — it  does  in  us  all, 
lad,  but  most  in  me,  and  every  man  is  wise  to 
practice  privately  that  way  which  conscience 
tells  him  is  the  best  for  him.  Lucien,  you  have 
a clear  conscience” — he  looked  me  in  the  face 
earnestly  for  a minute,  and  then  covered  his 
own  with  his  hands — “keep  it  so,  keep  it  so, 
my  boy,  in  spite  of  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the 
devil ; especially  don’t  let  money  tempt  you  ; 
that  is  the  Evil  One’s  strongest  weapon  against 
souls.  Esthers  tells  me  you  are  acquainted 
with  Madame  Palivez,”  he  continued,  and  I 
nearly  sprung  from  my  chair;  “you  go  to  her 
house,  her  private  residence,  and  her  villa,  I 
understand,  Lucien  ; I don’t  say  there  is  evil  or 
danger  in  it,  for  I know  little  about  her ; but 
she  is  a strange  lady  by  all  accounts,  and  you 
are  a young  man  not  much  acquainted  with  the 


world  yet,  and  not  likely  to  see  a snare  till  your 
feet  are  in  it.” 

“I  assure  you,  sir,  Madame  Palivez  or  any 
body  else,  as  far  as  I am  aware,  has  set  no 
snares  for  me  ; it  would  scarcely  be  worth  the 
trouble.”  I was  able  to  speak  by  this  time,  and 
to  comprehend  that  my  well-kept  secret — the 
visits  which  he  had  never  appeared  to  notice — . 
never  hinted  at — were  known  to  Esthers,  and 
published  in  Notting  Hill  House. 

“I  don’t  say  she  did,  lad;  but  you  are  a 
young  man,  and,  having  escaped  one  peril  of 
women,  have  a care  that  you  may  not  fall  into 
another ; though  fair  to  look  upon,  and  in  good 
repute  with  the  world,  they  that  know  her  best 
say  that  Madame  Palivez  is  a woman  without 
religion,  or  belief  of  any  kind.  Lucien,  we  are 
all  too  apt  to  lose  our  hold  on  that  anchor  of 
the  soul  when  sore  temptations  or  besetting  sins 
drive  us,  but  what  will  they  do  who  disown  and 
cast  it  from  them  ? I allow  she  does  business 
well  and  honorably,  but  she  lives  in  a strange 
manner  at  home ; there  are  strange  tales  abroad 
about  her  family — a proud,  foreign  race,  who 
made  money  in  all  countries  but  their  own,  mar- 
ried among  themselves  only,  and  never  one  of 
them  lived  to  old  age.  She  is  the  last  of  them, 
but  as  proud  as  any,  and  will  never  give  up  her 
bank  power  and  riches  to  any  man,  whatever 
hopes  she  may  give  them  for  her  own  ends  and 
amusements,  as  such  women  do.  Lucien,  my 
lad,  have  a care — I speak  to  you  as  a friend — 
don’t  let  your  heart  be  whiled  away  and  your 
life  shipwrecked  as  others  have  been.” 

“I  assure  you,  sir,  there  is  no  danger.  Ma- 
dame Palivez  is  too  far  above  me  in  fortune  and 
position  to  have  either  ends  or  amusement  in 
setting  snares  for  me,  were  I foolish  enough  to 
fall  into  them ; that  she  has  taken  some  notice 
of  me  as  her  clerk,  I gratefully  acknowledge ; 
and  I am  sorry  that  her  manager  has  nothing 
better  to  do  than  carry  such  absurd  tales.”  I 
would  have  said  more,  but  Forbes  interposed: 
“ Easy,  easy,  lad  ; it  was  not  the  manager  that 
put  me  up  to  all  I have  said  and  thought  about 
you  and  her;  he  did  mention  your  acquaintance 
just  by  accident  once  or  twice,  but  Esthers  is  a 
discreet,  close-thinking  man,  very  capable  in 
business,  very  sincere  and  religious,  I think,  as 
far  as  his  light  leads  him  ; man  can  go  no  far- 
ther ; but  he  is  seeking  for  truth,  and  will  come 
to  it,  with  God’s  help.  T don’t  think  he  is  given 
to  carry  tales  or  meddle  in  people’s  affairs ; 
what’s  your  opinion?” 

“ I believe  he  is,  sir,  very  much  given  to  both.” 
Madame’s  warning  was  in  my  mind,  but  must 
not  come  out. 

“ Judge  charitably,  lad” — Forbes’s  hands  were 
down,  and  he  was  looking  keenly  at  me — 
“judge  charitably;  but  what  reason  have  you 
to  think  so  ?” 

“A  thousand  reasons,  sir,  but  all  too  small 
to  be  quoted.  I know  it  by  the  man’s  daily 
practice  in  business  and  out  of  it : he  is  contin- 
ually ferreting  at  something  which  does  not  con- 
cern him,  continually  prying  into  people’s  private 


122 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


doings ; and,  to  speak  as  a friend,  Mr.  Forbse,  j 
as  I know  you  have  spoken  to  me,  his  tales  about 
Madame  Palivez,  and  his  pretense  of  turning 
Christian,  are,  in  my  opinion,  equal  impositions, 
made  for  some  crafty  end.  Of  one  thing  I am 
certain : he  has  some  design  in  getting  into 
your  house  and  society,  though  I know  not  what 
it  is,  and  I am  almost  equally  sure  that  he  would 
oust  me  out  of  it,  if  possible.” 

“ Nobody  will  do  that,  Lucien  ; but  tell  me, 
now,  tell  me  what  is  it  that  makes  you  think 
Esthers  has  a design?”  The  banker  looked  as 
earnest  as  if  not  his  money  alone,  but  life  and 
death,  depended  on  the  subject ; the  very  appear- 
ance of  sickness  passed  from  him  as  he  raised 
himself  on  the  bed,  clutched  the  coverlet  with 
both  hands,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  me.  Was 
there  ever  such  a hopeless  task  as  trying  to 
prove  to  another  that  which  one  knows  by  a 
thousand  signs  and  observations  not  to  be  mis- 
taken, but  which  melt  into  no  evidence,  and 
mere  surmise  when  reduced  to  words?  I was 
brought  to  that  test,  and  with  the  usual  result; 
what  I had  to  tell  of  Esthers’  manoeuvres  and 
sayings  would  be  reasoned  away  by  any  person 
inclined  to  judge  charitably,  and  afraid  of  com- 
ing to  hasty  conclusions,  as  the  Scotch  banker 
Was.  It  was  vague  and  unsubstantial,  even  to 
my  own  ears,  and  part  of  it  could  not  be  told, 
for  it  concerned  Madame  Palivez ; in  short,  I 
came  to  the  usual  case  of  people  who  attempt  to 
warn  others  of  the  rocks  they  can  not  distinctly 
point  out,  and  after  sifting  my  circumstantial 
evidence  anxiously  and  attentively  for  nearly  an 
hour,  Mr.  Forbes  civilly  gave  it  up  as  a mare’s- 
nest  of  my  own  discovery,  and  hinted  that  I 
should  entertain  no  prejudice  against  Esthers  on 
account  of  his  being  Madame  Palivez’s  cousin 
and  heir-at-law.  I had  been  bound  over  not  to 
publish  the  contrary ; I was  afraid  of  losing  my 
temper  in  case  of  any  more  advices  against  the 
snares,  and  therefore  allowed  him  to  drop  the 
subject,  apparently  satisfied  that  I had  proved 
nothing.  “ But,  Lucien,”  said  he,  “you  wont 
take  it  ill  because  an  old  man,  who  has  not  been 
overwise  himself,  maybe,  advised  you  to  take 
care  of  getting  entangled  by  the  fancy?  No 
man  ever  gets  safe  over  the  like ; if  he  escape, 
he  leaves  half  his  heart  behind  him,  and  that 
with  a woman  who  neither  cares  for  nor  values 
it.”  Was  there  a true  prophecy  in  that  warn- 
ing? Perhaps  Mr.  Forbes  saw  the  thought  in 
my  face,  for  he  added,  like  one  whose  stroke  had 
told,  “ Take  my  advice,  lad ; look  about  you  for 
a sensible,  serious-minded,  faithful  wife — one 
that  will  love  you  honestly  and  truly,  and  if  she 
have  the  wherewithal  to  help  your  business  and 
housekeeping ; men  must  look  to  those  temporal 
things  while  they  are  in  this  world.”  As  he 
spoke  the  door  was  softly  opened,  and  Helen 
stepped  in.  I knew  Miss  Forbes  had  not  been 
eavesdropping — it  was  beneath  her  character 
and  custom;  but  consciousness  is  more  difficult 
to  hide  than  conscience,  and  Helen  looked  con- 
scious of  what  we  had  been  talking  about ; it 
had  been  talked  over  between  her  and  her  fa- 


| ther ; I knew  it  by  her  look  and  by  her  move- 
ments as  she  glided  into  the  uttermost  corner 
of  the  room,  and  sat  down  in  the  one  vacant 
chair.  Mr.  Forbes  immediately  hemmed,  and 
asked  her  what  the  night  was  like.  Helen  said 
beautiful  and  starry — we  had  all  recourse  to  the 
weather  by  way  of  change,  and,  seeing  it  was 
getting  late,  I rose  to  take  my  leave.  Forbes 
thanked  me  for  coming  to  see  him,  advised  me, 
in  a low  tone,  to  think  of  what  he  had  been  say- 
ing, and  not  to  take  it  ill.  “ I will  take  noth- 
ing that  you  say  in  that  manner,”  said  I;  “it 
would  ill  become  me ; I know  it  was  all  spoken 
in  friendship,  though,  believe  me,  sir,  you  are 
misinformed.” 

“ So  much  the  better,”  said  Forbes ; “ though 
you  ought  to  say  mistaken,  lad.  Oh  yes,  I will 
soon  be  well  enough ; it  was  only  a cold,”  he 
continued,  in  answer  to  my  wishes  for  his  recov- 
ery, and  I saw  him  cast  a well-pleased  look  after 
Helen  and  me  as  we  went  down  stairs  together. 
Her  color  had  risen  in  the  room,  but  it  was  gone 
before  we  reached  the  hall  below.  “ What  do  you 
think  of  my  father’s  sickness,  Mr.  La  Touche?” 
she  said ; there  was  no  servant  within  sight  or 
hearing. 

“I  trust  he  will  soon  be  better;  how  did  he 
catch  cold?” 

“I  do'n’t  know,”  said  Helen.  “I  am  afraid 
there  is  something  working  on  his  mind.  I 
can’t  understand  it ; my  father  has  always  been 
reserved  about  his  inward  strivings ; we  have 
all  such,  owing  to  our  sinful  natures  ; but  I fear 
he  has  fallen  into  spiritual  despondency,  think- 
ing his  state  worse  than  it  is ; yet  oh,  Mr.  La 
Touche,  if  he  be  in  danger,  which  of  us  can  be 
safe  ? One  ought  to  place  no  confidence  in  good 
works ; but  they  are  evidences  of  faith,  as  the 
apostle  tells  us,  and  where  was  there  ever  a more 
faithful,  pious,  self-denying  life  than  his.  My 
father  has  been  blessed  with  riches ; I know  his 
heart  is  not  given  to  them  ; he  looks  on  himself 
only  as  a steward,  and  it  would  not  become  me 
to  tell  you  the  amount  of  his  charities;  yet,  you 
see,  he  refuses  to  have  the  commonest  comforts 
in  his  sleeping-room,  and  mortifies  himself  in 
so  many  ways  of  late,  not  to  speak  of  other  signs 
I see,  that  it  seemS  to  me  he  is  falling  into  a 
kind  of  despair,  if  that  could  happen  to  a right- 
eous man.” 

“Might  it  not  be  well  if  your  minister  con- 
versed with  him?”  My  association  with  the 
Forbes’  had  made  me  understand  what  suited 
them. 

“ He  does  come  here,  and  my  father  is  always 
willing  to  converse  on  religious  subjects,  but  it 
does  no  good.  There  is  something  in  his  mind, 
Mr.  La  Touche,  something  I can’t  fathom ; do 
serious,  sensible  people  like  him  ever  lose  their 
judgment?”  She  had  come  close  to  my  side 
by  this  time,  and  the  face  that  looked  so  old  and 
worn  before  its  time  was  white  as  if  with  deadly 
fear. 

“No,  certainly  not,”  said  I,  speaking  in  great 
pity,  yet  only  what  I believed  ; “Mr.  Forbes  is 
as  clear  and  collected  to-night  as  I ever  knew 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


123 


Mm  to  be;  whatever  may  disturb  your  father,  | 
depend  on  it  his  judgment  is  safe.” 

“Oh,  of  course  it  is,  but  I am  foolish,  and 
don’t  know  what  to  think,  and  one  magnifies' 
trifles.  I think  we  live  too  retired” — she  had 
hit  on  Madame  Palivez’s  solution — “my  father 
dwells  too  much  on  little  things ; you  see,  our 
cousin,  Melrose  Morton,  has  come  to  London ; 
he  visits  you,  as  was  to  be  expected ; did  you 
not  teli  me  you  were  friends  in  Baltimore  ? But 
my  father  saw  him  going  home  with  you  one 
evening  this  week,  and  it  upset  him  so.  He 
never  would  tell  me  what  they  quarreled  about ; 
perhaps  I should  not  ask,  but  they  say  it  is  nat- 
ural for  a woman  to  be  curious ; do  you  know 
what  it  was?” 

“I  do  not,  Miss  Eorbes ; Morton  would  not 
tell  me ; but  he  gave  me  to  understand  that  he 
and  your  father  had  reasons  for  keeping  apart, 
and  asked  me  not  to  mention  the  one  to  the 
other,  which  I promised  to  do.” 

“And  you’ll  keep  your  promise,  I know,  Mr. 
La  Touche” — what  a warm,  kindly,  almost  affec- 
tionate look  she  gave  me,  and  how  fair  it  made 
the  woman  I always  thought  so  plain — “you’ll 
keep  your  promise,  and  I would  not  tempt  you 
to  break  it,  if  I could ; but  there  is  one  thing  I 
was  going  to  ask  you” — she  blushed  up  to  the 
very  brow.” 

“ Ask  any  thing,  and  I shall  be  happy  to  do 
it,  Miss  Forbes.”  That  was  spoken  in  all  sin- 
cerity. 

“ Thank  you  — thank  you.  I know  it,  or  I 
would  not  ask  the  like ; yet  I am  afraid  you 
will  think  it  strange”  — the  good,  gentle,  pure- 
minded  woman  was  conscious  of  more  than  she 
meant  to  say — more  than  I could  gues£  at. 

“I’ll  think  nothing  strange  that  comes  from 
you.” 

“Well,  then,  you  know  Mr.  Esthers  comes 
here  on  Sundays.  We  have  got  into  that  — I 
wish  w’e  had  not  — and  I can’t  help  believing 
some  of  what  you  said  about  him.  Maybe  it  is 
wrong  to  think  so,  and  my  father  won’t  acknowl- 
edge it;  but  Mr.  Esthers’  talk  does  disturb  him. 
I don’t  know  why,  and  I can’t  understand  it ; 
but  will  you  come  on  Sundays  too,  and  keep  us 
from  being  alone  with  him  ?”  If  she  had  been 
talking  about  a haunting  spectre,  poor  Helen 
could  not  have  trembled  more,  or  looked  more 
terror-stricken ; but  what  was  it  she  asked  of 
me? — to  come  on  Sundays,  and  give  up  the 
waited,  watched-for  hours  with  Madame  Pali- 
vez.  Was  it  a ruse  to  keep  me  out  of  the 
snares  ? There  was  no  trick,  no  cunning  in 
poor  Helen’s  face,  and  the  Forbes’  had  been 
such  friends  to  me  as  no  man  ever  had  ; but 
oh,  the  selfishness  of  human  nature ! small  and 
queer  as  the  request  seemed,  it  was  all  I could 
do  to  serve  them,  yet  I shrank  back  involunta- 
rily, and  she  caught  my  blank  look  before  I was 
aware. 

“ You  can’t  come  — you  would  rather  not  — 
perhaps  you  have  another  engagement” — the 
tears  were  positively  gathering  in  her  eyes,  and 
both  heart  and  conscience  smote  me. 


“ I had  one,  but  I will  put  it  off,  and  be  hap- 
py to  do  so,  if  my  presence  can  serve  you  in  the 
smallest  degree.  Will  Esthers  come  while  your 
father  is  so  ill  ?” 

“ Oh  yes,  yes,”  said  Helen,  in  a frightened 
whisper,  “ there  is  no  putting  him  off ; we  have 
tried  a thousand  ways.  But  it  is  so  good  of 
you” — she  was  all  smiles  now. 

“ Not  a bit.  Will  your  father  be  aware  of 
the  arrangement?” 

“I’ll  tell  him;  he  knows  it  partly  already. 
But  you  won’t  say  a word  about  it  to  him,  or 
Morton,  or  any  body?  It  looks  so  queer  a thing 
to  ask ; but  I'll  never  forget  your  kindness,  Mr. 
La  Touche.” 

“I  wish  I could  do  you  a kindness,  Miss 
Forbes ; but  depend  on  me  being  with  you  on 
Sunday  evening,  though  I may  be  a little  late.” 
There  was  a sound  of  some  coming  step : she 
moved  from  my  side,  and  I said,  in  a louder 
key,  “No  doubt  your  father  will  be  much  better 
by  that  time.” 

“I  hope  he  will,”  said  Helen;  “ but  I have 
detained  you  shamefully.  Good-night !”  and 
with  a warmer  shahe-hands  than  I ever  thought 
she  could  give,  we  parted  at  the  hall  door. 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

WIIAT  DOES  ESTHERS  EXPECT? 

The  night  was  beautiful  and  starry.  I walked 
quickly  away  from.  Helen,  but  paused  on  the 
road  at  the  end  of  the  lane  to  look  back  on  the 
old  solitary  house,  shut  up  among  its  grounds 
to  the  right,  and  up  the  path  beside  the  stream 
to  the  left,  winding  deep  into  the  heart  of  the 
Park,  and  leading  to  Madame’s  villa.  The 
house  never  looked  so  lone  and  dreary  — the 
path  never  seemed  so  wild  and  green  ;'  and  I 
stood  there,  with  the  inward  conviction  that 
both  the  Forbes  and  Esthers  were  striving, 
though  not  in  concert,  to  break  up  my  friend- 
ship with  Madame  Palivez.  No  reflection  on 
all  that  had  passed  with  Forbes  or  with  Helen 
could  bring  me  to  any  other  conclusion.  I knew 
the  manager  was  doing  the  worst  part  of  it ; I 
knew  he  had  the  worst  designs.  The  Forbes’ 
fear  of  him  was  unaccountable ; but  I feared 
neither  the  Jew  nor  any  body  else  where  Ma- 
dame was  concerned.  Neither  he  nor  the  Scotch 
banker  would  part  me  from  her  friendship — if  it 
were  so  much,  it  was  nothing  more ; and  she 
and  they  spoke  strangely  of  each  other — knew 
more  than  I did,  perhaps  — and  they  had  made 
me  lose  my  chance  of  seeing  her  on  Sunday 
evening.  Well,  there  was  the  path  to  her  villa; 
it  was  not  too  late ; I would  go  and  tell  her  all. 
She  ought  to  know  it,  and  would  thank  me, 
maybe ; at  any  rate,  it  would  keep  our  friend- 
ship safe  from  the  manager’s  machinations.  So 
up  I went,  and  through  the  trees ; every  step 
was  known  to  me,  and  I never  parted  with  the 
brass  key,  night  or  day.  There  was  the  villa, 

' and  the  starlight  shining  on  it — the  great  trees 


124 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


growing  leafy  round  it,  and  the  breath  of  violets 
coming  up  from  lawn  and  garden.  I opened 
the  gate,  saw  lights  above  and  below,  caught  a 
glimpse  of  old  Marco  looking  out  at  the  ve- 
randa to  see  who  was  coming,  and  inquired 
if  Madame  was  at  home.  “Yes,  signor;”  he 
made  his  Eastern  bow,  and  pointed  to  the  stair. 
I ascended,  and  there  she  sat  in  the  room  I 
had  seen  so  black,  but  now  sweet  with  flowers, 
and  lit  up  with  wax  candles.  And  Madame 
herself — what  a contrast  to  her  last  appearance 
there  ! — in  a rich  evening  dress  — the  newest 
fashion  from  Paris,  I suppose — white  lace  over 
violet-colored  satin,  looped  up  with  bunches  of 
violets  and  pearls  — all  tuckers  and  flounces  — 
low  cut  and  short-sleeved,  as  evening  dresses 
were  then,  to  show  a neck  and  arms  that  might 
have  served  a sculptor  in  his  best  attempt  at 
Venus  — so  round,  soft,  and  snowy  they  were, 
and  set  forth  to  the  best  advantage  with  neck- 
lace and  bracelets  of  mingled  gold  and  pearls. 
Her  beautiful  hair  was  dressed  partly  in  flowing 
curls,  partly  in  braids,  bound  with  a coronet  to 
match,  which  looked  like  a crown  with  wreathed 
violets  and  strings  of  pearls  falling  from  it  among 
her  jetty  curls.  I had  never  seen  her  so  dressed 
before,  and  was  taken  by  surprise.  It  was  strange 
to  have  left  the  comfortless  chamber,  with  the 
sickness  and  sadness  that  lay  in  it  — the  worn 
face  of  Helen  Forbes,  and  her  dark,  sober  trim 
— and  find  myself  all  at  once  in  such  presence. 

She  had  heard  my  step,  and  was  waiting  for 
me  in  a graceful,  careless  attitude,  with  a bou- 
quet of  hot-house  flowers  in  her  hand,  and  a 
rich  Eastern  fan  lying  at  her  feet.  “Welcome, 
Lucien,”  she  said,  smiling  on  me  as  I entered  ; 
“come  and  shake  hands  with  me.  I have  been 
dining  at  the  Russian  embassador’s,  and  am 
tired  to  death  of  a large  dull  party.  By-the-by, 
I was  thinking  of  it  just  as  you  came  in  ; what 
is  your  opinion  of  death,  Lucien  ?” 

“ Upon  my  word,  Madame,  I am  afraid  I 
have  no  opinion  just  now  upon  the  subject.” 

“Just  now;  but  you  have  formed  a general 
one  : is  it  the  greatest  or  the  least  of  all  evils  ? 
is  it  no  evil  at  all,  but  only  the  greatest  good 
that  life  has  for  us  ?” 

“ I don’t  know,  Madame ; why  do  you  ask 
me?” 

“Because  it  is  our  common  lot,  and  my  own 
turn  is  coming  on.” 

“Your  turn!”  I could  not  help  looking  at 
her  from  head  to  foot  as  she  talked  so  in  her 
lace  and  satin,  flowers  and  pearls,  with  the 
brightest  bloom  I ever  saw  on  lip  and  cheek. 

“ Yes,  my  turn ; did  you  think  it  would  never 
come  ?” 

“ You  don’t  look  like  it,  Madame.” 

“No  she  glanced  at  herself  in  the  opposite 
mirror  with  more  of  queenly  pride  than  woman’s 
vanity;  “ but  the  greenest  grass  may  be  nearest 
the  scythe.  I have  got  a warning  sign  to-night, 
my  friend ; the  skeleton  hand  beckoned  to  me 
through  the  flare  of  plate  and  the  flash  of  dia- 
monds ; but  you  have  come  on  business  ? I 
know  it  by  your  look.  You  know  you  are  al- 


i ways  welcome,  but  I thought  this  evening  was 
sacred  to  your  Scotch  friends  the  Forbes’?” 

There  was  but  one  way  for  me  with  Madame. 
I related  as  clearly  as  I could  all  that  had  been 
said  and  done  in  Notting  Hill  House,  keeping 
back  only  the  banker’s  warnings  against  snares 
and  entanglements,  which  I dared  not  repeat, 
because  they  had  hit  on  the  truth,  but  I told  her 
all  their  fear  of  Esthers,  my  own  inability  to 
account  for  it,  his  knowledge  of  my  visits  to  her, 
Helen’s  request,  and  my  promise.  She  listened 
calmly,  as  was  her  wont,  but  evidently  in  deep 
thought,  sat  for  a minute  or  two  reflecting  when 
I had  finished,  and  then  said,  “You  did  right, 
Lucien,  to  promise,  and  you  will  do  right  to  go. 
I am  sorry  for  your  friends ; they  are  good 
people,  and  have  been  kind  to  you  and  yours. 
There  is  some  unsound  spot  in  their  lives,  all 
the  worse  because  it  must  be  hidden,  and  Est- 
hers has  got  his  eye  upon  it.  I am  sorry  for 
them  ; my  manager  never  gives  up  any  thing  he 
is  fairly  bent  upon,  and  he  is  bent  on  that,  not 
from  mere  curiosity.  Esthers  has  an  end ; can 
you  not  guess  it  ?” 

“I  really  can  not.” 

“Well,  consider  a moment:  Mr.  Forbes  is 
rich,  Helen  is  his  only  daughter  and  heiress  ; 
the  wealthy  banker  and  the  serious  young  lady, 
with  all  their  guid  Scotch  blood,  might  not  think 
the  Jew  an  eligible  match ; but  could  he  discover 
the  misfortune  or  the  crime — don’t  start,  they 
are  often  the  same  things,  my  friend  — which 
would  put  them  in  his  power  through  fear,  of  the 
world  or  the  law,  might  not  Esthers  make  his 
own  terms,  and  become  son-in-law  and  successor 
in  the  bank?” 

“ But,”  said  I,  “do  you  suppose  it  possible 
that  a man  like  Mr.  Forbes  could  be  guilty  of 
any  thing  which  would  give  the  manager  such 
power?” 

“I  don’t  know,  Lucien,”  and  she  looked  so 
thoughtful,  yet  so  disembarrassed;  “I  don’t 
know  ; Mr.  Forbes  is  a good  man — good  beyond 
the  power  of  creeds  or  customs ; but  he  may 
have  been  unfortunate  ; there  may  have  been  a 
moment  when  the  evil  angels,  the  rulers  of  dark 
destiny,  had  power  over  him.” 

“ What  do  you  suppose,  then,  Esthers  has  to 
discover  ?”  said  I ; it  was  evidently  not  her  own 
secret,  and  her  words  tallied  with  signs  about 
the  banker  which  had  puzzled  me. 

“ Once  more,  Lucien,  I don’t  know  ; I have 
suspicions  Avhich  I will  not  tell  you,  for  they 
should  not  be  uttered  without  proof.  Were  it 
not  that  an  unusual  fit  of  sincerity  has  come 
upon  me,  I would  not  say  so  much ; but  we  are 
friends,  and  you  will  understand  me.  I am 
sorry  for  the  Forbes’,  and  I will  take  measures 
to  prevent  Esthers,  as  far  as  in  my  power; 
that  is  not  what  I could  wish.  Though  he  is 
in  my  employment,  there  are  family  and  busi- 
ness reasons  which  do  not  allow  me  to  deal  with 
him  as  summarily  as  may  be  requisite.  But  I 
will  do  what  I can,  and  so  will  you  ; it  is  your 
duty  and  your  privilege.  Go  to  them,  Lucien, 
stay  with  them,  support  them  against  the  Jew, 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


125 


he  can’t  worm  so  well  in  the  presence  of  anoth- 
er, and  whatever  you  get  cause  to  suspect,  what- 
ever you  may  find  out  (for  you  are  one  of  the 
few  among  mankind  destined  to  see  the  hidden 
and  read  the  secret,  and  they  are  of  the  many 
that  will  not  carry  their  concealment  to  the 
grave — strange  that  we  all  wish  to  tell  our  tales 
on  this  side  of  it),  whatever  you  may  learn,  then 
remember  and  believe  that  Forbes  is  a better 
man  than  most  of  the  safe  walking  people,  and 
that  his  daughter  would  be  better  worth  win- 
ning than  the  fairest  face  in  your  acquaint- 
ance.” 

That  woman,  without  doubt,  had  a prophet’s 
power  of  seeing  and  showing  the  true.  Her 
judgment,  thus  briefly  given,  of  one  whom  that 
very  hour  had  placed  in  such  disadvantageous 
contrast  with  herself,  fell  on  my  mind  like  the 
flare  of  a torch  upon  a twilight  room.  It 
brought  me  a strong  and  sudden  conviction,  as 
truths  in  which  we  have  a personal  interest  are 
apt  to  come  home  to  us,  that  for  the  empire  of 
my  inner  life  the  banker’s  daughter  and  the  bank 
lady  were  unconscious  rivals,  but  rivals  never- 
theless. And  she  had  opened  my  eyes  to  the 
fact  voluntarily,  perhaps  by  premeditation,  an- 
other proof  that  I had  no  hold  on  her  heart. 
Yet  how  did  it  happen  ? I had  seen  Helen 
Forbes  often,  often  acknowledged  to  myself  her 
good  qualities,  and  thought  it  was  a pity  the 
banker’s  heiress  had  nothing  but  them  and  her 
father’s  wealth  to  recommend  her  ; but  now,  in 
the  presence  of  so  much  external  and  intellect- 
ual attraction,  the  moral  worth,  the  inherent 
excellence  of  the  otherwise  plain  woman,  was 
made  clear  to  me  beyond  all  comparison  and 
price,  and  also  that  my  better  hold  and  hope  was 
there.  I had  not  dreamt  of  this  yet ; it  was  a 
true  discovery.  Mine  was  a divided  life  once 
more ; there  was  no  change  of  affection,  no 
breach  of  faith  now  to  be  reckoned  for,  but  there 
was  a clashing  of  royalties,  for  the  one  woman 
reigned  over  my  imagination,  and  the  other  over 
my  reason.  It  is  well  with  the  man  who  has 
never  known  those  opposing  empires,  for  their 
strife  is  strong  and  strange,  and  who  can  say 
that  the  former  is  not  the  most  powerful  ? I 
felt  that  as  my  thoughts  passed  like  lightning 
from  the  present  to  the  absent,  I valued,  I be- 
lieved in  Helen,  but  I was  the  vassal  and  bond- 
man  of  Madame  Palivez,  convinced  of  her  ver- 
dict, yet  displeased  that  she  had  spoken  it,  and 
stammered  out,  “ I don’t  understand  you.” 

“You  do,  Lucien,”  she  said,  looking  me  in 
the  face  archly  but  kindly,  and  laying  her  white 
jeweled  hand  on  mine,  as  a mother  might  have 
done,  to  impress  some  good  counsel  on  her  eldest 
son — “you  do  understand  me,  and  you  will  do 
so  better  in  time,  for  you  have  sense  and  judg- 
ment, considering  your  want  of  experience.  But 
we  will  talk  no  more  on  the  subject  now  ; Helen 
Forbes  and  her  father  have  been  and  are  your 
friends;  they  are  in  difficulties — not  tangible 
ones,  to  be  sure,  but  all  the  worse  for  that,  and 
you  are  bound  to  stand  by  them,  to  serve  them 
to  the  best  of  your  ability,  and  think  the  best  of 


them  and  their  doings,  all  which  I know  you 
will  do  like  a loyal  man — a character  of  which 
this  world  affords  us  few  examples  ; yet  I think 
you  are  one  of  them,  and  I believe  you  will  find 
your  account  in  it,  which  does  not  always  hap- 
pen.” 

“I  would  stand  by  them  and  by  any  friend 
— by  any  body  that  wanted  my  help ; but  what 
can  any  body  do  to  help,  Madame,  where  one  is 
not  allowed  to  know  the  necessity,  or  rather  the 
cause  of  it  ?”  I was  speaking  at  herself  now, 
like  a displeased  man  whose  vexation  could  not 
be  put  in  words.  “ If,  as  you  say,  and  I think 
very  probable,  the  Forbes’  have  something  to 
hide  from  the  world  and  from  Esthers,  what 
service  can  one  do  them  without  being  trusted, 
without  knowing  how  or  when  to  serve?” 

“You  will  know  it  all  in  time,  my  friend.” 
She  spoke  with  great  composure,  but  the  woman 
looked  shaken  within.  “For  the  present,  do 
what  they  ask  you,  if  it  be  necessary  to  give  up 
your  Sunday  evenings  to  them.  Come  to  me 
when  you  find  it  convenient;  I shall  be  more  at 
home  here  than  I have  been  in  other  London 
seasons.  You  are  always  welcome,  and  since 
Esthers  is  aware  of  your  visits,  there  is  no  use  in 
taking  precautions  for  secrecy.  The  matter  is 
not  worth  publishing  ; but  let  them  know  it,  and 
talk  of  it  who  will,”  and  she  tossed  back  her 
coronet  with  a sort  of  careless  defiance.  Under 
the  flowers  and  pearls,  her  look  was  growing  sad 
and  weary  with  that  worn-out,  overworked  ap- 
pearance which  I had  occasionally  noticed.  But 
what  was  there  to  overwork  or  wear  her?  “ It 
is  growing  late,  my  friend,  and  I am  growing 
tired.  There  is  a proof  of  no  ceremony  between 
us,  so  bid  me  good-night,”  she  said,  once  more 
extending  her  hand  and  laying  it  on  mine.  I 
always  fancied  there  was  a spell  in  the  touch  of 
those  soft,  cold  fingers.  “I’ll  do  my  best  to 
manage  my  manager,  and  keep  him  off  your 
poor  friends.  You  will  support  their  courage, 
and  never  try  to  ferret  out  matters  which  will 
come  to  your  knowledge  soon  enough.” 

“ Do  you  suppose  I am  in  the  habit  of  fer- 
reting, Madame  ?”  There  was  no  keeping  down 
the  inclination  to  be  petulant. 

“No,  Lucien,  I do  not ; for  if  I had,  you  and 
I should  never  have  made  up  friendship.  I 
know  you  better,  and  I would  believe  in  you,  if 
it  were  possible  for  me  to  believe  in  man. 
Helen  Forbes  will,  for  she  is  good  and  pious ; 
has  never  inquired,  doubted,  nor  done  beyond 
the  common  ; never  found  her  own  light  at  vari- 
ance with  the  world’s  laws ; but  good-night,  my 
friend.” 


CHAPTER  XL. 

PROGRESS  OF  THE  MANAGER’S  CONVERSION. 

What  could  I do  but  say  good-night  and  go? 
She  watched  me  out  of  the  room  as  if  we  had 
been  parting  for  years,  and  looking  up  through 
the  clear  night,  when  I was'  fairly  out  of  the 
villa,  my  eye  caught  her  shadow  leaning  over 


12(5 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


the  balcony,  and  I felt  half  inclined  to  go  back. 
What  did  she  mean  by  the  skeleton  hand  that 
beckoned  to  her  that  evening  ? She  looked  in 
the  very  bloom  and  vigor  of  life’s  midsummer. 
It  was  said  the  Palivez  died  early,  and  she  had 
warned  me  that  the  greenest  grass  might  be 
nearest  the  scythe.  Possibly  it  was  only  a way 
of  talking  the  lady  had  in  the  midst  of  her  lace 
and  pearls,  attentions  from  foreign  embassadors, 
and  bowings-down  of  princes  who  wanted  loans, 
to  keep  herself  in  mind  that  she  was  mortal, 
after  the  fashion  of  Philip  of  Macedon,  At  any 
rate,  she  had  sent  me  away  — was  willing  to 
make  me  over  first  to  Rosanna  Joyce,  now  to 
Helen  Forbes,  and  doubtless  to  any  body ; clear 
evidence  that  the  woman  did  not  care  for  me, 
except  as  an  humble  companion,  perhaps  a 
necessary  instrument,  for  it  crossed  me  at  times 
that,  according  to  Rhoda’s  surmise,  she  would 
want  something  done ; so  I took  heart,  not  of 
grace,  but  of  pride,  turned  away  from  her  villa, 
and  went  home. 

Having  seen  Madame  Palivez  and  told  my 
tale,  I had  no  occasion  to  be  late  in  my  going  to 
Notting  Hill  House  on  Sunday  evening,  though 
the  contingency  had  been  provided  for.  I ar- 
rived before  Esthers,  and,  had  it  been  some  en- 
terprise of  knightly  daring,  I could  not  have 
been  rewarded  with  a brighter  smile  or  more 
joyful  welcome  from  Helen.  It  made  her  look 
ten  years  younger,  as  smiles  and  gladness  al- 
ways did,'  but  she  said  nothing  beyond  her  usual 
greeting,  except  that  papa  was  much  better ; had 
got  up  that  day,  though  he  was  not  able  to  go  to 
church.  She  had  read  “The  Whole  Duty  of 
Man”  to  him,  and  he  would  be  down  to  dinner. 
Then  we  got  on  her  accustomed  theme  — Ma- 
dame Palivez.  She  had  seen  her  riding  up  to 
the  villa  on  her  beautiful  horse  one  day  last 
week.  She  thought  Madame  looked  younger 
and  handsomer  than  ever.  Did  not  I think  so  ? 
Miss  Forbes  did  not  look  at  me,  but  straight  out 
of  the  window,  while  she  made  that  inquiry,  and 
1 said  decidedly  yes.  “You  are  acquainted 
with  her,  I understand  ?”  Helen  was  looking 
out  of  the  window  still.  “It  must  be  a great 
opportunity  for  you,  she  is  such  a learned  lady, 
has  traveled  and  seen  so  much,  not  to  speak  of 
her  standing  in  the  fashionable  world  ; but  you 
never  told  us  that  Madame  and  you  were  on 
such  a friendly  footing,  Mr.  La  Touche;” 

“No,”  said  I,  having  made  my  preparations 
for  the  attack.  “ Madame  received  me  privately 
as  a clerk  whom  she  pleased  to  take  notice  of. 
I don’t  exactly  know  why ; fashionable  ladies 
will  have  whims,  I suppose  , but  the  mention  of 
it  might  have  looked  like  a foolish  boast,  to 
which  I am  neither  entitled  nor  inclined  ; and  I 
know  the  gentleman  who  told  you  of  my  ac- 
quaintance with  Madame  did  so  for  no  good 
end.”  I had  scarcely  uttered  the  last  words, 
when,  as  if  in  proof  of  the  proverb  regarding 
the  speaking  of  a certain  person,  in  walked  Est- 
hers. He  had  manifestly  got  no  hint  of  my 
coming,  and  nothing  but  the  face  of  his  kindred 
Shylock,  when  he  found  himself  caught  in  the 


meshes  of  the  law  in  which  he  trusted  for  re- 
venge, could  have  equaled  the  mixture  of  sur- 
prise, disappointment,  and  wrath,  that  altered 
the  manager’s  countenance  to  something  like  a 
very  bad  false  face,  as  he  greeted  Miss  Forbes 
and  me  with  words  of  great  cordiality,  and 
made  kind  inquiries  after  the  banker’s  health. 
Esthers  was  never  long  in  recovering  his  com- 
posure when  it  was  requisite.  The  first  surprise 
over,  he  seated  himself  at  a friendly  nearness  to 
my  side,  commenced  conversation  in  an  easy, 
familiar  way,  as  if  my  being  there  before  him 
was  no  unexpected  chance,  and  we  were  two  in- 
timates meeting  at  the  rffcuse  of  a mutual  friend. 
I am  not  aware  of  having  taken  on  airs,  but 
I knew  how  long  and  vainly  he  had  endeav- 
ored to  oust  me,  and  why  I had  been  half  be- 
seeched  to  come  that  Sunday.  Yet,  knowing 
that  an  appearance  of  unconsciousness  was  the 
best  policy  for  both  the  Forbes’  and  myself,  I 
accepted  his  friendship,  and  kept  a sharp  eye 
upon  him. 

There  was  nothing  for  me  to  note  in  the 
course  of  the  evening,  which  differed  only  from 
my  Saturday  experiences  in  being  more  sober 
and  serious.  Our  talk  was  limited  to  religious 
books,  the  lives  of  ministers,  and  the  achieve- 
ments of  missionaries.  Miss  Forbes  took  in  a 
world  of  tracts  and  pious  periodicals,  but  her 
father  clung  to  the  works  of  old  Scotch  divines, 
of  which  he  had  a wondrous  stock,  ranging  from 
Knox  to  Erskine,  and  their  doctrinal  portions 
seemed  to  be  his  chief  delight.  We  were  all 
set  to  read  by  turns.  I remember  getting 
through  a part  of  Durham  on  the  “Psalms,” 
hearing  Helen  read  her  share  of  Boston’s  “Four- 
fold State,”  and  observing  Esthers  endeavoring 
to  look  impressed,  and  at  the  same  time  avoid 
giving  me  occasion  for  laughing  at  him,  for  the 
Jew  dreaded  nothing  so  much  as  ridicule  from 
any  quarter,  and  I was  aware  of  the  Sundays  he 
spent  at  the  bank.  We  staid  for  family  prayer. 
The  extemporary  devotions  of  his  Scotch  Church 
were  well  illustrated  by  Mr.  Forbes  and  his  house- 
hold. Their  domestic  service  was  an  example 
of  that  undemonstrative  but  deep  and  earnest 
piety  characteristic  of  the  Presbyterian  Puritan. 
They  read  verses  from  the  Bible  in  turn,  sang 
one  of  their  Scotch  psalms  to  an  old  monoto- 
nous tune,  which  might  have  been  heard  on  the 
hillside  at  one  of  Cameron’s  sermons.  Helen 
led  the  music,  and  her  father  closed  the  service 
with  an  impressive  prayer,  couched  in  the  lan- 
guage of  his  favorite  divines,  and  heard  or  join- 
ed in  by  all  his  family  in  devout  silence.  After 
the  manner  of  his  Presbyterian  models,  the 
banker’s  prayer  was  somewhat  lengthy,  and  be- 
ing a stray  sheep  of  Rome,  too  much  occupied 
with  worldly  thoughts,  and  curious  regarding 
the  people  about  me,  I could  not  help  taking  a 
stealthy  survey.  They  were  all  kneeling  — a 
Scotch  custom  for  private  prayer,  though  they 
stand  in  the  kirk.  I saw  Helen  with  her  thin 
hands  clasped  and  her  face  lighted  up  with  a 
look  of  such  rapt  and  spiritual  devotion  as  made 
it  seem  half  angelic.  “ How  beautiful  she  is ! ” 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


127 


was  my  inward  exclamation  ; but  as  I glanced 
to  the  other  side,  not  to  be  observed,  it  seemed 
as  if  an  evil  spirit  had  come  up  to  counteract 
the  heavenly  influences,  for  there  was  Esthers 
kneeling  like  the  rest,  apparently  in  fixed  at- 
tention, but  his  face,  which  he  supposed  hid- 


easily  frightened,  but  that  glance  of  the  Jew, 
kneeling  at  what  Mr.  Forbes  called  his  family 
exercise,  put  me  on  my  guard  in  a weird,  un- 
earthly manner  against  poisoning  or  stabbing  in 
the  dark.  He  looked  capable  of  that  and  more. 
Henceforth  I should  have  to  walk  warily,  as 


u I could  not  help  taking  a stealthy  survey." 


den  in  a corner  of  the  room,  was  turned  to- 
ward me,  and  I had  never  conjured  up  in  fancy, 
much  less  seen,  any  thing  like  its  concentrated 
malice.  If  there  were  any  truth  in  that  Old- 
World  notion  of  the  evil  eye,  his  must  have 
blasted  my  life.  I never  was  supposed  to  be 


one  that  knew  he  had  secret  enmity  to  fear. 
Yet  with  the  hate  and  with  the  malice  there 
was  something  blended  not  intelligible,  not  ra- 
tional, and  as  we  rose  from  our  knees,  I found 
out  that  it  was  a look  like  that  of  the  ragged 
man  when  I wrenched  the  long  knife  out  of  his 


128 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


hand  and  flung  him  back  from  his  hold  on  Ma- 
dame’s  bridle. 

The  family  prayer  concluded  our  evening ; 
the  Forbes’  retired  early,  both  on  Saturday  and 
Sunday.  It  was  about  ten  o’clock  on  a beauti- 
ful summer  night,  with  the  wake  of  daylight 
still  lingering  in  the  west,  when  Esthers  and  I 
took  our  leave  oh  the  most  friendly  terms  with 
our  host  and  with  each  other.  Helen  bade  us 
good-night  with  equal  civility  to  each,  at  the 
top  of  the  stair ; and  let  me  confess  that  I had 
some  misgivings  when  the  manager  remarked 
that  his  way  lay  past  Petersburg  Place.  A lit- 
tle reflection  convinced  me  that  there  was  no 
danger:  he  had  no  weapon,  my  strength  was 
greater  than  his,  and  Esthers  was  not  the  man 
to  venture  on  an  overt  act  of  hostility.  He 
walked  along  doAvn  the  avenue  and  through  the 
lane,  chatting  in  as  friendly  a manner  as  Charles 
Barry  and  I used  to  chat,  only  that  Esthers  was 
hard  and  dry  by  nature  on  any  subject.  His 
present  theme  was  Mr.  Forbes  : how  delicate  his 
health  was,  how  much  better  he  appeared  to  be 
that  evening.  The  banker  certainly  did  look 
himself  again,  and  I could  not  catch  the  Jew 
talking  of  any  thing  peculiar ; he  certainly  had 
not  been  in  the  ferreting-out  line.  Now  he 
spoke  of  father  and  daughter  with  most  friendly 
seriousness ; the  knowingness  and  the  smirks 
were  laid  aside,  and  to  me  he  was  as  civil  as 
one  of  the  old  Italian  princes  might  have  been 
to  the  man  for  whom  he  had  bravos  in  waiting. 
I responded  with  care  and  caution,  expecting 
the  Jew  would  try  to  draw  me  out  on  my  being 
found  in  Notting  Hill  House ; but  he  made  no 
attempt  of  the  kind,  and  our  talk  had  diverged 
to  the  beauty  of  the  night,  the  fine  road  between 
us  and  London,  the  buildings  that  were  being 
got  up,  and  the  number  that  would  come  down 
from  the  City  to  Notting  Hill  every  Sunday  if 
they  had  only  conveyances,  when  on  the  Bays- 
water  Road,  within  a short  distance  of  my  own 
street,  a woman  leading  two  children  passed  us. 
It  was  the  look  of  astonished  recognition  she 
gave  Esthers  that  caught  my  attention ; the 
light  was  sufficient  for  her  to  see  him  plainly, 
and  also  to  show  me  that  she  was  Mrs.  Muncy, 
the  faithful  liege  and  charwoman  of  our  house. 
The  Jew  did  not  observe  her  ; he  had  subsided 
into  a brown  study,  which  made  him  quicken  his 
steps  and  keep  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground, 
without  speaking  a word,  till  we  reached  the 
opening  of  Petersburg  Place,  when  he  stopped 
short,  turned  to  me  with  a kind  of  grin  which  was 
meant  for  a sneer,  and  with  the  very  hiss  through 
the  teeth  of  his  sister  in  Berkeley  Square,  said, 
“You  are  a great  friend  to  the  Forbes’,  and  the 
Forbes  are  great  friends  to  you ; but  if  you  knew 
every  thing,  what  sort  of  friends  would  you  be?” 

“ What  do  you  mean?”  said  I,  stopping  and 
confronting  him.  The  manager  was  going  to 
say  something  in  reply,  had  actually  opened  his 
mouth,  when  a different  impulse  seemed  to 
strike  him,  and  with  a laugh  which  sounded  at 
once  scornful  and  insane,  he  darted  off*  at  top 
speed,  and  was  out  of  sight  in  a few  minutes. 


I stood  looking  after  the  man,  and  wondering 
whether  or  not  his  reason  was  taking  leave  of 
him  ; but  as  I turned  to  my  own  house,  some- 
body came  up  close  behind  me,  and  there  was 
Mrs.  Muncy,  with  her  two  little  children. 

‘ ‘ I beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I took  the  liberty 
of  waiting  for  you,”  said  the  honest  woman, 
“just  to  tell  you,  because  I thought  Miss  Rhoda 
and  you  were  particular  about  it,  that  the  gen- 
tleman you  were  walking  with  on  the  road  is 
the  same  that  called  one  day  when  you  were  all 
out,  and  made  signs  to  Hannah  Clark.  I never 
see’d  him  since  or  before ; but  I would  know 
him  among  a thousand.” 

“And  you  are  quite  sure  he  is  the  person 
who  called?”  said  I. 

“ I would  take  my  oath  on  it,  sir,  though  she 
said  it  was  Father  Connolly ; I knowed  he  was 
no  priest  or  clergyman.  Oh,  no  thanks  at  all, 
sir,”  continued  Mrs.  Muncy,  in  reply  to  my  ac- 
knowledgments ; “ it  is  right  to  put  every  body 
up  to  what  concerns  them.  I .am  bound  to  do 
more  than  that  for  you  and  Miss  Rhoda and 
she  went  off  with  a profound  courtesy. 

I stood  for  a minute  or  two  on  the  spot  where 
she  left  me,  pondering  over  that  brief  revelation. 
What  a light  it  cast  on  the  Jew’s  character  and 
our  former  puzzle ! He  was  the  person  whom 
Hannah  Clark  had  stolen  out  to  meet,  who  had 
probably  supplied  her  Avith  a key  for  our  street 
door,  and  instigated  her  watch  on  my  goings  to 
the  villa.  Hannah’s  readiness  to  leave  us,  and 
delight  in  the  prospect  of  Broad  Street,  Avere  in- 
telligible now.  How  he  had  contriA^ed  to  enlist 
the  services  and  secure  the  affections  of  the 
dumb  girl  was  beyond  my  skill  to  penetrate ; 
but  the  business  was  done,  and  she  was  in  the 
bank — under  Madame  Oniga’s  supervision,  in- 
deed, but  also  within  his  reach,  and  convenient 
for  any  purpose.  Had  the  chances  worked  to 
his  mind  in  that  matter,  or  had  he  a hand  in 
Hannah’s  translation?  It  seemed  to  be  Ma- 
dame’s  OAvn  idea  ; but  she  knew  as  little  of  the 
true  state  of  the  case  as  I did  at  the  time,  and 
Esthers’  interference  would  have  been  a suffi- 
cient indication  to  one  so  keen-sighted.  Han- 
nah’s conduct  had  been  unexceptionable  since 
her  installment  in  the  bank.  The  discipline 
there  was  strict,  almost  monastic,  and  Madame 
Oniga  had  an  eye  not  to  be  eluded  ; but  that 
did  not  explain  the  mystery.  I knew  it  Avas  an 
instrument,  and  not  a mistress,  for  which  Est- 
hers had  made  choice  of  the  dumb  girl;  and 
Avith  her  instinctive  cunning,  natural  dexterity, 
and  unreasoning  mind,  he  could  not  have  found 
one  better  qualified  for  doing  his  behests  Avith- 
out  scruple  or  question.  There  was  that  about 
the  manager  which  assured  me  that  ordinary 
folly  or  passion  had  little  hold  upon  him.  Est- 
hers Avas  cold-blooded  by  nature ; it  was  the 
tenth  and  not  the  seventh  commandment  he  was 
inclined  to  break.  Madame  had  pointed  out  to 
me  his  probable  purpose  in  haunting  the  Forbes’; 
but  what  purpose  had  he  for  Hannah  Clark  to 
serve  in  her  establishment  ? I could  make  noth- 
ing of  it  but  to  let  her  knoAV  the  whole  as  soon 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


129 


as  convenient.  It  was  early  in  her  evening,  but 
I could  not  intrude  again  on  the  lady’s  retire- 
ment. She  had  been  in  haste  to  part  with  me 
on  my  last  visit ; she  might  think  it  only  an 
•apology.  I would  show  her  that  my  heart  was 
as  free  as  her  own.  What  a fool  I had  been  to 
let  it  go  after  a woman  who  cared  nothing  for 
me,  and  never  would ! Was  it  true  what  she 
had  insinuated  about  Helen  Forbes?  What 
did  her  father  mean  when  he  advised  me  so 
earnestly  to  give  up  Madame  Palivez,  and  look 
out  for  a faithful  wife  ? and  what  secret  was  it 
that  lay  so  black  and  heavy  at  the  root  of  his 
prosperity,  in  which  that  foreign  woman  seemed 
to  have  a part,  and  yet  no  fear  ? 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

A NEW  COURTSHIP. 

It  was  pleasant  to  step  out  of  these  dark 
thoughts  and  surmisings,  as  it  were,  into  the 
little  parlor  of  my  own  house,  and  find  Rhoda 
in  her  best  attire,  presiding  over  a hospitable 
supper-table,  surrounded  by  the  honest,  con- 
tented faces  of  Watt  Wilson,  the  two  Masons, 
with  their  eldest  son  and  daughter,  and,  to  my 
surprise,  Melrose  Morton.  All  but  he  had  been 
invited  for  the  evening  (they  were  Rhoda’s  se- 
lect society),  and  I took  care  that  my  sister 
should  not  he  solitary  when  I went  out  to  friends 
of  a different  order  ; but  Melrose  had  dropped 
in  unexpectedly,  and  been  made  welcome  ; per- 
haps he  was  curious  as  to  what  became  of  me 
on  Sundays ; but  Rhoda  had  told  him  I was 
gone  to  the  Forbes’.  “In  course  I did  not 
think  you  were  there,  Lucien,”  said  my  honest 
sister,  when  we  were  alone  in  confidential  talk  ; 
1 1 but  you  said  it  was  to  be  kept  from  all  the 
world  that  you  went  to  see  the  bank  lady,  and 
as  it  was  only  a white  story,  I thought  I might 
as  well  tell  it ; goodness  be  praised  that  it  hap- 
pened to  be  true.  He  came  — Mr.  Morton  I 
mean — -just  when  the  tea  was  a-putting  down, 
and  in  course  I asked  him  to  stay.  I know 
that  would  not  have  been  onproper  in  Ireland, 
and  I hope  it  is  not  onproper  here  ; he  is  your 
friend,  and  a very  sensible  man.” 

“ Very,  Rhoda,”  said  I.  The  habitual  bloom 
of  my  sister’s  cheek  had  heightened  as  she  spoke ; 
a smoothing  of  her  hair  and  an  arrangement  of 
her  frills  beyond  the  common  had  been  made  in 
the  course  of  the  evening,  and  it  struck  me  all 
at  once  that  the  learning  and  the  gentility 
found  wanting  in  Watt  Wilson  were  on  the 
side  of  Melrose,  and  that  I had  seen  the  Scotch- 
man keeping  a quiet  but  well-pleased  eye  on  my 
sister.  The  lot  they  were  to  draw  came  distinct- 
ly before  me,  an  easy  and  a suitable  one,  not- 
withstanding that  the  one  was  a Greek  schol- 
ar, and  the  other  could  never  be  taught  to  spell 
her  mother  tongue  ; they  were  both  honest  and 
true-hearted,  free  from  vanity,  ambition,  and 
covetousness.  He  had  knowledge  enough  to 
value  Rhoda’s  sterling  good  qualities,  and  pass 
I 


over  the  deficiencies  which  were  but  of  surface 
and  accident ; she  had  sound  sense  enough  to 
esteem  his  native  nobleness  and  unparaded 
abilities.  They  deserved  the  good  fortune,  nev- 
er to  be  my  own,  of  a happy  and  harmonious 
union.  My  Scotch  friend  had  come  from  Bal- 
timore to  take  my  sister  from  me,  and  leave  me 
with  a solitary  fireside — a life  overshadowed  by 
clouds,  not  of  my  own  raising,  and  heart  going 
astray  after  Madame  Palivez. 

I thought  of  it  all  as  I quizzed  Rhoda  about 
Melrose,  and  she  blushed,  and  smiled,  and  said, 
“He  never  paid  her  no  attentions  that  she 
could  see  ; in  course  she  liked  Mr.  Morton  in  a 
friendly  way,  because  he  had  been  a good  friend 
to  me — hadn’t  I told  her  so  often  ? and  he  was 
an  oncommon  sensible  man — she  ought  to  say 
gentleman.” 

It  was  a long  talk  we  had  that  night,  for  I 
told  her  every  thing  except  the  look  I had  noted 
in  Esthers’  face,  and  his  subsequent  remarks  or 
insinuations  on  the  Bayswater  Road.  The  man- 
ager was  my  enemy — a crafty  and  a fierce  one  ; 
I had  guessed  it  for  some  time  ; I believed  it 
now ; and  there  was  reason  for  it  on  Esthers’ 
part,  for  I had  been  made  to  cross  his  way.  But 
why  give  my  sister  cause  of  dread  and  fearful 
surmise  when  I happened  to  be  out  late,  and 
she  was  alone,  with  nobody  but  Nelly,  our  maid, 
in  No.  9 ? I could  take  care  of  myself,  and  I 
would  not  frighten  her,  so  Rhoda  heard  all  but 
that,  and  made  her  comments  accordingly. 

“I  have  often  thought  it,  Lucien,”  she  said, 
“though  not  just  plain  enough  for  me  to  speak 
upon  ; with  all  their  goodness  and  charitable- 
ness, Mr.  Forbes  and  his  daughter  could  not 
look  so  downhearted  and  onhappy  like  if  they 
hadn’t  some  trouble  past  the  common.  Con- 
sidering their  riches,  too,  many  a time  I have 
thought  to  myself  the  poorest  beggars  ever  I 
saw  on  the  roadsides  in  Ireland  did  not  look  so 
misfortunate  ; but,  Lucien,  that  bank  lady  has 
the  great  sense,  and  I am  sure  it  is  true  she  tells 
you,  whatever  their  trouble  is,  it  is  not  Miss 
Helen’s  fault.  I don’t  know  about  her  father ; 
he  is  a good  man  and  a great  Christian,  in 
course ; but  rich  men  buy  their  riches  dear 
sometimes,  and  will  do  more  for  money  than 
poor  ones,  as  Father  Connolly  said  in  his  ser- 
mon about  the  camel  going  through  the  eye  of 
the  needle.  Howmsoever,  that  Jew  is  a vil- 
lain, and  worth  watching.  To  think  of  him 
taking  Hannah  Clark  out  by  night  and  day, 
and  making  me  think  she  was  dealing  with  the 
fairies  ; laming  her  such  craft,  too,  and  sending 
her  astray  entirely  if  Providence  don’t  take  a 
hand  in  it ; and  then  trying  to  get  that  good, 
blessed  young  lady  and  her  fine  fortune ; good- 
ness me,  but  he  is  the  villain  ! Lucien,  dear, 
there  is  just  one  thing  you  ought  to  take  care  of ; 
he’ll  hate  you  like  the  soot  when  he  finds  they 
lean  to  you,  especially  Miss  Helen,  as  I know 
she  does.”  # 

“ How  do  you  know  that,  Rhoda  ?” 

“Well,  Ijust  can’t  say;  Miss  Forbes  is  on- 
common proper,  but  the  properest  thinks  of 


130 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


somebody  at  a time  ; and,  Lucien,  if  it  was  the 
will  of  Providence,  and  you  inclined  to  it,  a 
better  thing  couldn’t  happen  any  man.  What- 
ever trouble  is  about  them,  it  can’t  concern  us, 
and  there’s  the  bank  would  make  you  a gentle- 
man, though  in  course  you  are  one  already ; 
but  money  is  a good  thing,  and  Miss  Helen 
would  be  good  without  it.” 

I tried  to  disabuse  my  sister’s  mind  of  the 
idea  that  Miss  Forbes  entertained  the  slightest 
preference  for  me,  but  it  crept  into  my  own.  I 
had  got  the  hint  from  two  such  different  quar- 
ters ; Madame  Palive£  and  Rhoda  had  become 
oracles  to  me,  each  in  right  of  her  own  peculiar 
wisdom,  and  the  banker’s  advice  seemed  full  of 
the  same  insinuations.  But  Helen  was  the 
young  lady  to  whom  I had  been  made  over  at 
the  villa,  the  successor  of  Rosanna,  chosen  for 
me,  and  pressed  on  my  attention  by  the  one 
woman  to  whom  my  heart  dared  not  speak  out. 
Her  father  was  rich,  and  had  cause  for  living 
in  retirement,  whereby  there  was  little  chance 
of  a very  eligible  son-in-law.  She  was  a mir- 
ror of  all  the  virtues,  though  not  of  all  the 
charms  ; might  be  induced  to  marry  the  hum- 
ble friend  of  the  family  to  whom  its  unpresent- 
able transactions  might  have  to  be  made  known, 
and  would  afterward,  in  right  of  her  seniority 
and  superior  rank,  school  and  admonish  him  as 
I had  heard  her  doing  to  Charles  Barry.  Yet 
in  the  midst  of  these  censorious  reflections  there 
would  come,  with  the  very  same  conviction 
which  flashed  on  me  when  they  were  spoken  at 
the  villa,  Madame’s  wise  and  noble  words,  “Re- 
member that  Forbes’s  daughter  is  better  worth 
winning  than  the  fairest  face  in  your  acquaint- 
ance.” My  reason  believed,  but  my  heart  did 
not ; it  clung  to  that  fairest  face  and  the  gifted 
mind  that  lent  it  such  ever-changing  play  of 
light  and  shadow ; yet  I could  not  think  of  Hel- 
en falling  into  the  clutches  of  the  Jew,  and  for 
her  own  as  well  as  her  father’s  sake  I resolved 
to  stand  between  her  and  Esthers. 

The  next  time  I saw  him  was  in  his  office, 
endeavoring  to  look  as  if  nothing  particular  had 
passed  between  us,  and  according  to  his  cus- 
tom, when  there  was  any  thing  to  be  got  over, 
deeply  engaged  with  the  bank  accounts.  I had 
determined  not  to  provoke  or  remind  him  ; open 
enmity  with  the  manager  would  not  do  on  Ma- 
dame’s account  and  my  own  ; but  I w as  also 
resolute,  that  if  he  ever  made  such  ambiguous 
observations  regarding  the  Forbes’  again,  to  de- 
mand his  meaning  on  the  spot,  and  in  the  mean 
time  to  let  him  see  I had  a memory,  and  could 
not  be  smoothed  back  to  intimacy.  The  Jew 
was  keen,  and  my  manner  warned  him  directly; 
he  made  no  attempts  to  renew  our  familiarity. 
I don’t  think  the  man  could  have  done  it  with 
all  his  craft,  and  it  frightens  me  now  more  than 
it  did  then  to  think  how  fierce  and  deep  his 
hatred  must  have  been.  It  had  gathered  for 
many  a month  and  many  a season,  ever  since 
my  coming  to  the  bank.  The  manager’s  an- 
tipathy was  at  first  sight ; my  fortunes  and  my 
doings  had  augmented  it  day  by  day,  and,  hav- 


ing allowed  the  fire  to  break  forth,  though  only 
at  a crevice,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  cover 
it  completely  again.  He  probably  had  his  rea- 
sons for  not  provoking  me,  as  he  neither  at- 
tempted to  domineer  or  give  trouble  ; but  by 
degrees,  perceptible  enough  to  me,  though  not 
intended  to  be  so,  he  withdrew  from  my  sight 
and  company  as  far  as  business  would  allow,  sit- 
ting mostly  behind  a sort  of  screen  which  fenced 
his  own  corner  of  the  office,  and  frequently  re- 
tiring, papers  and  all,  to  his  private  room. 

I had  been  too  proud  to  go  and  tell  Madame 
of  his  Sunday  performance,  and  Mrs.  Muncy’s 
revelation.  She  had  sent  me  from  her  not  very 
well  pleased,  but  back  I would  go  ; it  concerned 
Madame’s  interest  and  domestic  establishment ; 
it  was  my  duty  to  tell  her  who  was  the  unknown 
friend  of  the  girl  she  had  taken  into  her  house 
to  be  off  my  hands  and  out  of  harm’s  way,  and 
I was  at  her  villa-gate  next  evening  as  soon  as 
business  permitted.  Old  Marco  came  out  as  I 
opened  it,  and  seemed  surprised  at  seeing  me. 
“Madame  is  not  here,”  he  said,  in  reply  to  my 
inquiry:  “ she  is  gone  to  Paris.” 

“Gone  to  Paris!”  I repeated,  in  perfect 
amazement. 

“Yes;  I thought  the  signor  had  been  in- 
formed,” and  Marco  looked  as  astonished  as 
myself.  Madame  had  left  home  that  morning  ; 
he  could  not  tell  me  how  long  she  intended  to 
stay,  but  he  knew  she  was  to  attend  the  wed- 
ding festivities  of  the  young  Prince  Zamoski, 
and  preside  at  a ball  which  her  friend  Hagit 
Bey,  the  Turkish  embsasador,  intended  to  give 
on  the  occasion.  I turned  away,  closed  the 
gate,  and  strode  back  through  the  thick  under- 
wood and  tearing  brambles.  Madame  was  too 
much  occupied  with  fashion,  with  princes  and 
foreign  embassadors,  to  think  of  me  or  my  in- 
telligence. I had  said  to  my  sister  that  great 
ladies  would  have  their  whims,  and  it  was  plain 
I had  spoken  truly  without  meaning  it.  She 
had  taken  a whim  for  my  company,  and  it  was 
wearing  off. 

Once  more  the  terrible  inequality  of  our  po- 
sitions rose  up  before  me  like  an  iron  wall.  It 
was  all  to  be  expected,  yet  the  change  had  come 
suddenly,  and  not  like  herself,  after  saying  she 
was  to  be  much  at  the  villa  that  season,  giving 
me  a carte  blanche  to  come  when  I could,  and 
knowing  I would  have  something  to  tell  con- 
cerning Esthers,  to  set  out  for  Paris  without 
leaving  word  or  friendly  sign  for  me ; it  was' 
treating  a man  like  her  lap-dog  (by-the-by,  Ma- 
dame kept  nothing  of  the  kind,  but  I had  been 
filling  its  place,  perhaps,  and  deserved  to  be 
looked  on  accordingly).  One  could  understand 
her  recommendations  of  Helen  Forbes  now ; 
any  body  might  take  the  plaything  she  wanted 
no  longer.  Well,  the  great  lady  would  not  be 
troubled  with  my  calls  for  some  time,  yet  I 
would  do  a friend’s  duty  by  her ; she  should  not 
be  left  in  the  dark  on  a matter  which  concerned 
her  own  household  — in  which,  moreover,  she 
had  been  genei*ous  to  me  and  mine.  So  I went 
home  and  wrote  a note,  briefly  stating  the  case 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


131 


as  regarded  Hannah  Clark  and  Esthers,  making  I 
all  apologies  suitable  to  my  inferior  position  for 
trespassing  on  her  time  and  attention  ; I under- 
stood she  had  left  home  and  would  not  return 
for  some  time,  but  I thought  it  my  duty  to  ap- 
prise her,  and  hoped  to  be  excused.  That  note 
I sealed  carefully,  wrote  “ private”  on  the  cor- 
ner, took  it  with  me  to  the  bank  next  day, 
knocked  at  the  private  door,  and  asked  to  see 
Calixi.  The  confidential  servant  made  his  ap- 
pearance exactly  as  he  had  done  at  the  finding 
of  the  signet  ring ; things  were  going  back  to 
that  point  with  me.  I inquired  if  he  could 
forward  the  note  to  Madame ; yes,  Calixi  could. 
“Was  the  signor’s  letter  in  haste?”  “No,  it 
was  of  little  consequence  ; only  a private  com- 
munication on  a matter  of  business  which  Ma- 
dame ought  to  know. 

“The  signor  might  depend  on  its  going 
straight  to  her  hands,”  and  Calixi  bowed  me 
out. 

Days  and  weeks  passed,  I can  not  say  how 
many  ; the  reckoning  of  that  time  is  passed  out 
of  my  memory,  but  I know  they  seemed  the 
longest  days  and  weeks  that  ever  -went  over  me. 
In  their  course  I returned  to  my  old  and  oft- 
broken  resolution  to  get  free,  and  tried  to  think 
of  every  thing  but  Madame  Palivez.  I did  not 
succeed,  though  there  were  other  matters  to 
think  of.  From  the  Sunday  in  which  he  had 
dropped  in  and  “ been  axed  to  stay,”  Melrose 
Morton  became  a more  frequent  visitor  at  No. 
9.  I welcomed  my  old  friend  the  more  sincere- 
ly that  there  was  nothing  for  him  to  find  out, 
no  goings  to  the  villa  to  be  concealed  from  his 
observation  or  comment.  I knew  it  was  not 
altogether  for  friendship’s  sake  he  came ; the 
legacy  business,  which  brought  him  to  London, 
would  soon  be  settled.  Melrose  would  have  a 
very  decent  provision  to  begin  housekeeping  on, 
with  his  prudent,  sensible  ways,  my  sister’s  lim- 
ited expenditure  and  certain  annuity.  There 
was  no  hinderance,  no  gainsayer  in  their  way 
to  a wedding  and  a home,  and  their  sober,  quiet 
courtship  always  reminded  me  of  what  I had 
read  concerning  German  professors  and  their 
frauleins.  He  would  sit  for  hours  talking  with 
me  on  public  news,  new  books,  popular  preach- 
ers, or  any  subject  of  intellectual  interest,  while 
she  prepared  the  bread  and  butter,  poured  out  the 
tea,  or  sat  at  the  farther  side  of  the  table  mend- 
ing shirts  and  stockings.  This  scholarly  con- 
• versation  was  not  for  her  to  take  part  in ; but 
Rhoda  listened  to  every  word  with  unfeigned 
admiration,  smiled  intelligently  enough  some- 
times, paid  more  attention  to  her  appearance 
than  ever  I could  induce  her  to  do  before  Mor- 
ton’s advent,  and  staid  as  little  out  of  the  parlor 
as  her  domestic  avocations  would  allow. 

Melrose  did  not  talk  to  her ; at  times,  one 
would  have  thought  him  unconscious  of  her 
presence ; but  his  eye  followed  her  when  she 
left  the  room,  and  lighted  up  when  she  returned. 
They  understood  each  other ; and  I,  knowing 
that  no  better  match,  as  regarded  principles  and 
character,  could  be  found  for  my  sister,  and 


none  more  eligible,  as  regarded  worldly  affairs, 
could  be  expected,  did  a brother’s  duty  in  letting 
both  parties  see  that  they  had  my  best  wishes 
for  success  on  their  way  to  the  altar  and  after- 
ward, though  thereby  I should  be  left  alone,  as 
ever  man  was;  and  the  thought  seemed  to  make 
me  an  old  bachelor  before  the  time. 

Melrose  came  and  talked,  and  Rhoda  listened 
and  smiled.  As  his  visits  were  always  in  the 
evening — I don’t  think  Scotchmen  could  court 
at  any.  other  time — he  missed  meeting  Helen 
Forbes,  who  now  called  oftener  than  ever.  My 
sister  and  she  were  positively  growing  intimate ; 
so  was  I at  Notting  Hill  House,  where  my  pres- 
ence seemed  singularly  useful.  How  Esthers 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  I would  be  there 
every  Sunday  as  a shield  against  him,  I know 
not ; but  on  the  very  next,  after  our  meeting, 
he  sent  an  apology : in  Madame’s  absence  it 
was  requisite  for  him  to  remain  at  the  bank 
that  evening ; robberies  had  taken  place  in  the 
city ; suspicious  characters  had  been  seen  in 
the  rear  of  the  premises — he  might  say  that  he 
had  received  private  intimation  that  an  attempt 
was  meditated,  and  Mr.  Forbes  knew  that  duty 
ought  to  be  his  first  consideration.  I don’t 
think  the  Scotch  banker  believed  it ; lam  sure 
Helen  did  not ; but,  being  both  prudent,  they 
made  no  remarks,  except  that  Mr.  Esthers  was 
right  if  he  thought  the  place  in  danger,  and  I 
think  Forbes  answered  his  note  to  that  effect. 
But  the  manager  was  not  got  rid  of,  though  he 
avoided  meeting  me.  I missed  him  at  all  hours 
of  the  day  out  of  the  bank,  I caught  glimpses 
of  him  about  the  village  and  about  the  house ; 
they  were  always  brief  and  distant,  but  Helen 
told  me  that  he  was  never  done  calling  on  one 
pretext  or  other,  and  I had  reason  to  believe  he 
did  the  same  at  the  place  of  business  in  Thread- 
needle  Street. 

Why  the  Forbes’  did  not  cast  him  off  at  once 
I can  only  explain  by  the  fact  that  hidden 
breaches  in  people’s  lives  are  apt  to  bring  on  a 
weakness  of  mind  of  which  such  pertinacious 
ferreters  can  take  advantage,  and  the  Jew  had 
caught  them  in  his  meshes  before  they  were 
aware.  “I  don’t  know  why  he  comes  so  much 
about  us,  for  we  don’t  encourage  him  now,”  said 
Helen,  when  I came  early  one  evening,  and 
found  her  alone  in  the  drawing-room.  She  had 
commenced  the  subject  of  her  own  accord  ; she 
often  did  so  to  my  sister ; the  manager  seemed 
to  have  taken  possession  of  her  mind,  but  it 
was  in  the  way  of  fright  and  aversion  ; yet  there 
was  nothing  to  hear,  except  that  he  called  very 
often,  and  his  talk  troubled  papa.  Helen  was 
manifestly  troubled  herself  on  that  subject;  she 
took  me  into  confidence,  though  it  was  involun- 
tarily, for  the  gentle,  patient  woman’s  life  was 
fretted  away  with  the  unaccountable,  unexplain- 
ed trouble  which  hung  about  her  father's  mind. 
His  health  was  evidently  broken  ; he  was  look- 
ing wan  and  worn ; his  nights  were  restless,  his 
meals  were  often  untasted ; yet  the  family  doc- 
tor could  not  say  what  was  the  matter,  and 
Forbes  appeared  unnwillig  to  talk  of  his  sick- 


132 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


ness,  especially  to  me.  Yet  I was  welcomed  to 
his  house  with  the  same  unfailing  friendship, 
always  pressed  to  trome  more  frequently.  “ Sun- 
day or  Saturday  we  shall  be  glad  to  see  you. 
You  know  our  ways  now,  lad,”  said  the  banker; 
“they  are  sober  and  sad  ones,  maybe,  but  one 
had  need  to  walk  soberly,  redeeming  the  time, 
you  know;”  and  Helen  chimed  in  with  her  be- 
lief “that  Mr.  La  Touche  would  allow  for  their 
peculiarities,  and  make  himself  at  home  with 
them.”  She  smiled  kindly  when  she  said  it, 
never  let  me  go  without  promising  to  come  back 
soon,  went  down  stairs  with  me  many  a time 
after  her  father  had  said  “ Good-night,”  to  see 
if  it  were  wet  or  fine  ; and,  whether  or  not  it 
was  for  me  she  looked  out  of  that  bay  window, 
I always  saw  her  there  when  coming  up  the 
avenue. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

A SCENE  IN  WHICH  SALLY  JOYCE  IS  THE  PRIN- 
CIPAL ACTOR. 

Is  pride  or  principle  the  better  fence  to  a 
man’s  heart  ? My  experience  seems  in  favor 
of  the  former ; for,  now  that  Madame  Palivez 
was  letting  me  slip — going  off  to  Paris  without 
a farewell  word — taking  no  notice  of  my  note, 
and  the  watchful  zeal  it  manifested  for  her  and 
her  house  — I had  not  half  such  difficulty  in 
avoiding  the  private  residence  in  Old  Broad 
Street,  the  path  to  the  villa,  or  the  windows  in 
Mayfair,  as  I found  when  Rosanna  and  con- 
science were  in  the  case. 

I think  it  was  about  the  end  of  July  that  all 
the  play-going  people  of  London  were  worked 
into  a fever  of  expectation — thanks  to  the  news- 
papers and  hand-bills — concerning  a dramatized 
version  of  Sir  Walter  Scott’s  “ Rob  Roy,”  which 
was  to  be  acted  for  the  first  time  in  London, 
under  the  special  patronage  of  his  Royal  High- 
ness the  Prince  Regent,  who  had  at  that  time 
strongly  taken  up  the  great  unknown  as  a Tory 
set-off  against  the  lights  of  Holland  House,  and 
found  it  requisite  to  be  popular  and  charitable, 
because  the  spies  were  already  on  the  track  of 
his  traveling  spouse  in  preparation  for  her  con- 
templated trial.  The  Scotch  play  was  to  be 
performed  under  his  patronage,  in  aid  of  a re- 
lief fund  for  the  linen-weavers  of  Aberdeen  and 
Dundee,  whom  the  sudden  advance  of  the  cot- 
ton-trade and  the  power-loom  had  completely 
thrown  out  of  employment  that  year.  It  was 
1819,  memorable  for  distress  in  the  agricultural 
and  linen-weaving  districts.  Charity  was  want- 
ed, and  charity  was  given ; and  London  rank 
and  fashion  profited  by  the  opportunity  to  get 
up  a new  sensation  with  charity  balls  and  plays. 
The  fast-coming  works  of  the  author  of  “Wa- 
verley,”  then  in  the  vigor  of  his  wondrous  power 
and  produce,  were  looked  for  and  welcomed 
with  an  eagerness  which  no  novel  of  these  mod- 
ern days  wins  or  deserves.  ‘ ‘ Rob  Roy”  had 

been  dramatized  and  acted  in  Edinburg,  under 


Scott’s  own  direction.  The  theatrical  company 
who  played  it  there  were  coming  to  London,  and 
the  entire  Scotch  interest — a most  extensive  one 
then — were  in  full  ferment,  and  their  enthusiasm 
leavened  all  London,  being  fanned  by  the  breeze 
from  Carlton  House.  Every  one  with  the  small- 
est pretensions  to  taste,  gentility,  or  charitable- 
ness, was  going  to  the  theatre,  where  “Rob 
Roy”  had  a tremendous  run,  and  the  fervor  ex- 
tended to  my  friend  Melrose  Morton.  He  was 
no  frequenter  of  play-houses  even  in  Baltimore, 
and  I think  had  grown  more  serious  since ; but 
Morton  was  born  in  Scotland — a native  of  the 
same  border  county  which  rejoiced  in  the  Wiz- 
ard of  the  North.  We  knew  he  gloried  in  the 
fact,  and  Rhoda  and  I were  more  pleased  than 
astonished  when  he  arrived  one  evening  armed 
with  tickets  for  the  upper  boxes  of  the  theatre. 
Rhoda  had'  never  been  at  a theatre  in  all  her 
life — I suppose  that  evening  must  have  been  an 
event  in  her  calendar.  She  was  delighted  at 
the  prospect,  the  more  because  Melrose  would 
take  charge  of  her.  I had  nobody  to  take — had 
not  been  at  a play  since  the  last  one  to  which  I 
took  Rosanna ; but  I liked  to  see  such  proper 
attention  paid  to  my  sister,  while  thinking  it  my 
duty  to  remonstrate  with  Morton  on  the  expense. 
There  were  none  of  the  upper  boxes  under  a 
guinea.  “Nonsense,”  said  he;  “is  it  not  for 
the  honor  of  Scotland,  and  the  relief  of  the  Dun- 
dee weavers  ? But  do  make  haste  and  get  dress- 
ed, for  the  crowd  will  be  immense,  and  we  had 
better  be  in  time.” 

We  got  dressed,  and  were  in  time.  I sat 
beside  Rhofla  at  her  first  play,  with  Melrose 
Morton  on  the  other  side,  in  one  of  the  most 
crowded  and  fashionable  houses  then  drawn  in 
London.  Boxes,  pit,  and  gallery,  all  were  in 
full  dress ; there  was  nothing  else  admitted ; 
and,  now  that  the  drama  has  fallen  so  far,  and 
the  opera  risen  on  its  ruins,  it  is  strange  to  look 
back  on  the  interest  and  excitement  which  that 
Scotqh  play  had  for  the  wearers  of  stars  and 
ribands,  diamonds  and  coronets.  There  they 
were,  packed  as  close  as  their  inferiors  could 
be ; and  what  a blaze  of  jewelry  and  flash  of 
uniforms  there  were  in  the  private  boxes ! My 
eye  went  there,  but  not  in  search  of  the  Prince 
Regent  or  his  court  notables.  By-the-by,  Scott 
was  among  them,  and  I remember  seeing  the 
man  whom  royalty  and  letters  both  delighted 
to  honor — being  agreed  for  once.  But  when 
we  had  squeezed  back  into  our  seats  after  the 
rising  of  the  whole  house,  and  the  thunder  of 
applause  which  greeted  his  entrance,  I saw  a 
party  who  had  come  late  into  a box  specially 
reserved  for  them.  One  was  a tall  man  with  a 
dark,  serious  countenance,  and  a sort  of  East- 
ern dress ; his  beard  was  long,  and  getting 
rather  gray.  There  was  a small  demonstration 
made  when  he  appeared.  He  seemed  to  know 
himself  as  a person  of  importance  ; to  be  a 
stranger,  yet  not  unaccustomed  to  such  scenes ; 
and  somebody  behind  me  said,  “It  is  the  Turk- 
ish embassador.”  The  other  was  a younger 
man,  and  a Russian.  I knew  him  to  be  such 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


by  liis  semi-Tartar  face,  by  the  military  uni- 
form he  wore,  and  by  the  critically  insolent  look 
he  gave  the  ladies,  all  but  one,  and  that  was  the 
lady  by  whose  side  he  sat,  to  whom  he  played 
the  humble  servant,  or  at  least  the  attentive — 
the  third  and  principal  of  the  party,  for  she  was 
Madame  Palivez,  fresh  returned  from  Paris  in  a 
rich,  new  evening  dress,  all  gold,  embroidery, 
and  diamonds.  How  queenly,  how  beautiful 
she  looked ! Venus  dressed  for  a modern  the- 
atre ! There  were  hundreds  of  glasses  and  eyes 
directed  to  her  box.  Every  body  knew  the 
great  bank  lady.  I did  not  intend  to  be  seen 
looking  at  her.  I did  not  expect  that  she  would 
look  at  me.  She  had  passed  me  in  public 
many  a time  without  the  slightest  look  of  recog- 
nition, but  now,  to  my  surprise,  she  did  recog- 
nize me.  It  was  but  one  glance  at  the  spot 
where  we  three  sat,  and  then  a sudden  expres- 
sion of  pain — a ghastly  paleness  passed  over 
her  face.  Was  Madame  going  to  faint?  I 
started  up  involuntarily,  but  sat  down  again. 
What  good  could  I do  but  occasion  remark? 
The  Russian  had  observed  it  as  well  as  I.  He 
was  speaking  to  her — going  to  make  a fuss ; 
but  she  stopped  him — used  her  fan  vigorously ; 
doubtless  gave  a satisfactory  account  of  her  per- 
turbation ; was  looking  all  herself  again  in  an- 
other minute,  but  for  a shade  of  pallor  which 
still  rested  on  her  cheek ; engaged  her  two  gen- 
tlemen in  conversation  till  the  curtain  rose,  and 
was  thenceforth  occupied  with  the  play.  It  had 
commenced,  and  the  house  was  all  attention  to 
the  renowned  Scotch  actors,  though  consider- 
able noise  was  still  made  at  the  doors  by  late 
comers,  for  whom  no  place  could  be  found. 
One  louder  burst  than  usual  in  the  direction  of 
the  upper  gallery  made  me  look  that  way  in 
time  to  see  Sally  Joyce  with  her  sister,  once 
my  affianced  bride,  and  poor  Jeremy,  struggling 
in  through  the  dense  mass  that  filled  up  seat 
and  passage,  for  in  that  cheapest  part  of  the 
house  there  was  not  convenient  standing-room. 
Sally  made  her  way  nevertheless.  I could  hear 
her  shrill  remonstrance  to  the  public  and  scold- 
ing of  her  relatives  till  they  were  drowned  by 
cries  of  order  and  silence  among  the  gods ; but 
she  contrived  to  get  a pretty  good  post  of  obser- 
vation, from  which  her  tall  figure,  and  long, 
thin  face  were  conspicuously  visible,  and  she 
could  see  most  of  what  went  forward  on  and  off 
the  stage,  including,  as  I became  aware,  from 
her  malicious  watch,  the  private  bo^  of  Madame 
Palivez  and  her  company.  She  could  see  us 
too,  and  I could  not  make  out  for  some  tim3 
why  we  engrossed  so  much  of  her  attention,  till, 
among  the  many  crushes  that  came  behind  us, 
I caught  familiar  tones,  and  looking  round, 
saw  Charles  Barry  shoved  off  Melrose  Morton’s 
shoulders,  on  which  he  had  been  endeavoring 
to  find  rest  for  his  hands,  having  scarcely  stand- 
ing-room, for  the  upper  boxes  were  now  getting 
as  full  as.the  gallery.  “ Oh,  Mr.  La  Touche,” 
said  he,  transferring  his  attentions  to  my  back, 
“how  do  you  do?  Very  glad  to  see  you. 
What  a confounded  crush  there  is  here ! Worse 


133 

than  the  gallery;  but  I could  not  stay  with 
those  people.” 

* “Who?”  said  I.  *. 

“Well,  Rosanna  and  the  rest  of  them  : they 
are  no  company  for  a gentleman and  Barry 
steadied  himself  as  well  as  he  might,  for  I per- 
ceived the  gentleman  had  got  more’  of  the 
strong  waters  than  was  good  for  him. 

What  a shabby,  downward-going  look  he  had 
got  already,  though  it  was  but  the  second  re- 
turn from  sea  since  his  marriage ! The  Forbes’ 
took  no  notice  of  him  now.  They  had  not 
mentioned  his  home-coming  to  me ; perhaps 
they  did  not  mean  to  be  aware  of  it.  How 
.truly  was  Madame’s  prophecy  being  fulfilled ! 
and  there  she  sat  fanning  herself  and  looking 
on  the  play  with  the  air  of  an  amused  queen, 
while  the  Turk  turned  to  her  for  explanations, 
and  the  Russian  seemed  to  be  taking  his  cue 
from  her  look. 

The  play  went  on  ; I have  seen  it  a dozen 
times  since  with  far  more  interest  than  I saw  it 
then,  for  that  private  box  was  my  stage,  and  the 
company  in  it  far  eclipsed  the  Scotch  actors. 
She  looked  at  me  too — I know  she  did,  though 
not  intending  to  be  seen ; and  something  of 
painful  recollection  was  always  in  the  look. 
Was  it  self-reproach  for  the  careless  casting  off? 
My  vanity  or  folly  triumphed  in  the  thought. 
I never  knew  the  pleasure  of  being  an  injured 
man  before ; but  when  the  curtain  fell  on  the 
first  scene,  and  one  could  hear  any  thing 
through  the  cheering,  Melrose  Morton — who, 
with  book  in  hand,  had  been  diligently  making 
things  clear  to  Rhoda’s  intellectual  comprehen- 
sion— turned  to  me  with  a remark  on  the  princi- 
pal actor,  and  added,  in  a lower  tone,  “Lucien, 
the  officer  in  the  box  with  Madame  Palivez  is 
taking  particular  note  of  you,  and  I don’t  like 
his  looks.” 

“I  am  much  obliged  to  him,  though  I have 
not  the  honor  of  his  acquaintance.  Do  you 
know  who  he  is?”  said  I. 

“I’ll  tell  you,”  said  Barry,  coming  down 
more  heavily  on  my  shoulders;  “he  is  a Rus- 
sian— Prince  Dashkoff,  the  son  of  that  woman 
who  helped  old  Catharine  in  the  poisoning  of 
her  husband.  They  say  he  would  not  stop  at 
the  like  himself.  Have  a care  of  him,  La 
Touche,  for  he  looks  a regular  Tartar.” 

“I  am  not  likely  to  come  in  a Russian 
prince’s  way,  Mr.  Barry.” 

“Well,  maybe  not ; but  he  has  taken  a dis- 
like, that’s  certain ; those  high  foreign  rascals 
do  sometimes.  There  was  one  of  them  came  in 
the  Rattlesnake  from  Malta — ” here  the  curtain 
rose,  and  Barry’s  tale  had  to  come  to  an  end. 

I had  not  seen  the  Russian  taking  notes ; 
watch  as  I would,  I could  not  detect  him  after ; 
but  I knew  he  had  observed  the  change  that 
came  over  Madame’s  face  at  the  first  sight  of 
me,  and  the  dread  of  compromising  her  made 
me  resolve  to  slip  out  as  quickly  as  possible 
when  the  curtain  fell  on  the  last  scene,  and  the 
densely-filled  house  was  thundering  out  its  ap- 
plause. 


134 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


“We’ll  meet  outside,”  said  I to  Morton,  well 
knowing  that  he  would  take  care  of  my  sister. 
I could  have  left  her  to  his  protection  in  a 
desert,  for  a braver,  truer  man  never  existed. 
It  was  terrible  work  getting  out,  short  as  the 
box  passages  are ; but  out  I squeezed  at  last, 
stepped  aside  from  the  coming  crowd  to  wait  for 
Melrose,  and  breathe  the  air  of  the  summer 
night.  How  fresh  it  blows  on  a man’s  brow 
after  the  crush,  the  ranting,  and  the  footlights! 
bringing  the  contrast  between  the  world’s  green 
sylvan  times  and  our  hot-pressed  city  life  to 
mind.  But  all  at  once  I perceived  there  was  a 
boy  by  my  side — a little  page  he  seemed,  though 
not  in  livery,  and  with  a foreign  look.  “ A vous, 
Monsieur,”  he  said,  slipping  into  my  hand  a 
card.  It  was  Madame’s  own,  deeply  gilt,  in 
the  fashion  of  those  days,  and  on  the  back  was 
written,  with  her  own  hand,  “Please  to  follow 
the  bearer.” 

Any  command  from  that  quarter  was  abso- 
lute with  me ; but  Melrose  and  my  sister  were 
not  to  be  kept  waiting  and  inquiring.  I pen- 
ciled on  the  back  of  one  of  my  own  cards, 
“Don't  wait  for  me ; I have  met  an  unexpected 
friend,”  placed  it,  with  some  securing  silver,  in 
the  hands  of  a trusty-looking  messenger,  with 
the  name  and  a brief  description  of  the  party  to 
whom  it  was  to  be  delivered,  and  followed  the 
boy.  He  knew  his  business  and  his  way ; the 
latter  led  through  lanes  and  alleys  of  whose  ex- 
istence I had  no  idea:  they  threaded  between 
great  houses  and  through  West  End  courts — 
the  last  of  them  was  a mere  passage,  termina- 
ting at  a high  wall,  with  a narrow  gate  of  cast- 
iron.  The  boy  opened  it  with  a key  he  had, 
and  I stepped  into  a flower-garden,  small  and 
square,  like  those  of  old  London.  A grass-plot 
with  a few  rose-bushes  it  seemed  to  be ; but  the 
place  was  so  dark  that  I could  scarcely  follow 
the  boy.  He  waited  for  me  at  a door  in  the 
farther  end,  and  gave  three  low  knocks;  it 
was  opened  by  a chain  or  spring  within,  for  I 
saw  nobody  when  we  stepped  into  a carpet- 
ed passage,  where  a lamp  was  burning,  and  a 
straight,  narrow  stair  led  up  to  a sort  of  ante- 
room. I saw  that  the  passage,  stair,  and  ante- 
room were  beautifully  painted,  richly  carpeted, 
and  perfumed,  it  seemed,  by  the  oil  burned  in 
its  lamp;  its  light  was  soft,  dim,  and  dream- 
like ; there  was  no  sound  to  be  heard  either 
without  or  within  ; and  when  the  boy  opened  a 
door,  and  motioned  me  to  enter  a room,  fur- 
nished in  a rich  foreign  fashion,  hung  with  rose- 
colored  silk  and  great  mirrors,  ornamented  with 
vases,  statuettes,  and  flowers,  I started  in  sur- 
prise to  see  Madame  Palivez,  seated  on  the  op- 
posite sofa,  in  the  dress  she  had  worn  at  the 
theatre.  I never  saw  her  embarrassed  at  meet- 
ing me  before ; but  now  there  was  embarrass- 
ment and  trouble  in  her  look  as  she  rose  and 
extended  her  hand,  while  the  boy  retired,  and 
closed  the  door  noiselessly  behind  him. 

“I  am  glad  you  have  come,  Lucien  ; I wanted 
to  see  you,  it  is  so  long  since  we  met ; so  sit 
down.”  Her  fingers  felt  icy  cold,  but  the  clasp . 


was  as  kind  as  ever.  “ Did  you  see  me  before 
I went  to  Paris  ?” 

“Yes,  Madame;  I called  to  tell  you  about 
Esthers  and  the  Forbes’.  I called  on  Monday 
too,  and  found  you  were  gone  ; I left  a note  for 
you  in  Broad  Street,  because  I had  heard  some- 
thing you  ought  to  know.” 

“ Oh  yes,  I got  the  note  ” — Madame  looked 
like  one  who  was  catching  up  threads  of  mem- 
ory— “ it  was  about — ” 

“About  Hannah  Clark  and  Esthers,  Ma- 
dame.” 

“Yes,  yes,  I recollect;  and  you  were  going 
to  the  Forbes’,  and  were  to  have  come  and  told 
me  how  he  and  they  got  on  ; and  I did  not  say 
I was  going  to  Paris,  and  Calixi  forwarded  the 
note  a week  after.  I recollect  it  all.” 

Had  she  fallen  asleep  since  that  Saturday 
evening,  and  only  woke  up  to  my  existence, 
and  the  matters  we  had  so  much  interest  in,  at 
such  a distance  of  time? 

“You  don’t  understand  me,  Lucien,  and  it  is 
not  to  be  expected  you  should  ; but  I will  ex- 
plain, my  friend.  It  is  a symptom  of  approach- 
ing death — a family  one — which  has  come  to 
me — a sudden  failure  of  memory,  to  which  all 
the  Palivezi  have  been  subject  as  the  time  of 
their  departure  drew  near.  I forgot  to  tell  you 
that  I was  going  to  Paris  that  evening  when 
you  called.  I forgot  to  leave  a message  for 
you — I forgot  that  you  were  to  come  at  all. 
Your  note  reminded  me  of  every  thing ; but  I 
could  not  answer  it  without  an  explanation, 
which  I did  not  choose  to  put  on  paper ; and 
when  I did  return,  I forgot  there  was  any  thing 
of  the  kind  to  be  done  till  I saw  you  in  the 
theatre.  You  must  have  thought  my  conduct 
strange,  unfriendly — perhaps  unhandsome  ; but 
that  is  the  true  account  of  it.  And  oh,  Lucien, 
it  warns  me  that  I must  prepare  to  go !” 

“Impossible,  Madame,”  I said,  gazing  on  her 
as  she  sat  before  me  in  the  strength  and  vigor 
of  life’s  midsummer — its  bloom  upon  her  cheeks 
and  its  brightness  in  her  eyes.  “ I would  take 
a lease  — an  annuity — on  your  life.  That  loss 
of  memory  is  strange — stranger  than  any  thing 
I ever  heard  of ; but  every  body  is  subject  to  un- 
accountable accidents  of  mind.  You  are  not 
going  to  die  for  many  a year;  cast  the  idea 
from  you.  Such  omens  are  apt  to  fulfill  them- 
selves; gloomy  thoughts  and  fears  undermine 
both  health  and  spirits.” 

“Yes,  Lucien,  you  think  me  weak  and  fool- 
ish to  be  so  frightened  at  the  prospect  of  the 
common  lot;  but  you  are  mistaken.  It  is  not 
the  leaving  of  this,”  and  she  glanced  carelessly 
on  the  rich,  luxurious  room,  “it  is  not  the  leav- 
ing of  wealth  and  honor,  with  all  that  waits  on 
them— not  the  quitting  of  this  living  world— its 
daylights,  its  fancies,  and  its  flowers — for  the 
shroud,  the  coffin,  and  the  clay,  that  chills  my 
heart  with  a terror  I can  not  express.  I think 
that  death  is  but  the  passage  to  another  life — a 
better  one,  it  may  be.  Yet  I know  not — the 
Fates  may  still  keep  hold  of  us  ; but  the  uncer- 
tainty gives  space  for  hope.  It  is  not  Death  I 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


135 


fear — neither  did  my  forefathers  fear  it.  The 
blood  that  marched  to  Thermopylae  with  lyre 
and  flute,  that  made  Marathon  a laurel-bearing 
field  for  all  time,  was  in  them.  Our  Athenian 
ancestors  did  not  picture  him  a skeleton,  with 
scythe  and  sand-glass,  like  your  Christian  King 
of  Terrors — so  profitable  to  priests  and  churches 
— but  a youth,  beautiful  and  fadeless  as  Apollo, 
with  everlasting  peace  upon  his  brow,  and  a 
friendly  hand  stretched  out  to  weary  mortals, 
leading  them  down  to  Lethe,  where  they  might 
drink  and  forget  their  griefs  and  burdens. 
They  did  not  fear  him,  nor  do  I,  with  the  dread 
of  these  weak  and  creed-stricken  times ; but, 
Lucien,  Death  comes  on  to  me  with  terrors  that 
are  not  his  own — terrors  for  which  my  mental 
or  physical  constitution  can  never  be  prepared, 
though  I have  tried  hard  to  cope  with  them  ; 
and  there  is  no  help  to  which  one  can  turn.  The 
last  of  the  Palivezi — and  the  most  unlucky,  too 
— all  that  went  before  me  had  some  of  their  own. 
blood  to  depend  on  in  that  worst  extremity ; but 
I have  none — no  help,  no  trust.  Lucien— com- 
panion, friend — who  came  to  me  a stranger,  yet 
would  not  remain  such — saved  my  life,  heard  my 
secret  thoughts,  sat  with  me  in  the  midnight 
watch  of  fearful  memory — will  you  stand  by  me 
like  a true  man,  in  spite  of  the  world’s  customs, 
laws,  and  faiths,  and  do  me  that  one  last  and 
greatest  service,  which  I have  done  to  the  Pali- 
vez  that  had  none  but  me  to  do  it?”  She  look- 
ed me  in  the  face  with  such  sad,  imploring  eyes, 
while  her  satin  glistened  and  her  diamonds 
flashed  in  the  light  of  the  one  wax-candle,  so 
placed  that  it  shone  full  on  her,  and  left  the  rest 
of  the  room  in  dimness. 

“ I will  do  any  thing  to  serve  you,  Madame, 
let  the  world  say  what  it  will ; it  is  my  duty  to 
stand  by  you  ; tell  me  how — ” I was  going  to 
say,  but  she  interrupted  me  with  “Duty,  sir?” 
and  the  sad  look  changed  to  one  of  tameless 
pride  ; “I  wanted  a friend,  and  you  speak  like 
a servant.  I tell  you  there  is  nothing  so  hateful 
to  me  now  as  duty ; it  is  the  thing  people  get 
paid  for,  grow  respectable  upon,  keep  shops  and 
houses,  and  go  to  church  with.  That  was  not 
what  I looked  for;  yet  pardon  me” — she  grew 
softened  and  sorrowful  once  more — “I  fell  into 
the  error  of  desperate  people,  and  expected  too 
much.  You  are  not  the  friend  I want;  you  can 
not  be ; there  are  great  gulfs  between  us  ; your 
life  has  ties,  prospects,  and  obligations  not  com- 
patible with  such  woeful  service.” 

“None  that  I know  of — none  that  I acknowl- 
edge, Madame.  Tell  me  of  what  the  service 
you  want  consists ; let  me  be  your  friend — your 
helper,  at  all  hazards,  whatever  be  your  diffi- 
culty ; whatever  I can  do  against  it,  as  far  as 
my  power,  my  energy,  my  life  extends,  I am 
ready  and  willing,  and  will  hold  myself  happy 
to  make  any  effort  or  run  any  risk  for  you.”  I 
had  risen  and  stepped  close  up  to  her  side,  for  I 
knew  the  woman  needed  me,  and  my  heart  was 
on  my  lips. 

“Lucien,”  she  said,  taking  my  hand  in  hers 
— the  soft  white  fingers  were  no  longer  cold, 


and  the  look,  though  still  sad,  was  kindly — “ Lu- 
cien, if  I asked  you  to  do  that  for  me  which  you 
must  hide  forever  from  the  world,  for  fear  of 
blame  and  law — that  which  would  cast  a shad- 
ow over  all  your  after-days,  and  come  with 
ghastly  clearness  to  your  midnight  dreams — 
that  which  would  lie  like  a burden  on  your 
memory,  not  to  be  shared  with  friend  or  sister, 
with  the  woman  whom  your  heart  took  for  its 
latest  choice,  whom  you  found  fairer,  better, 
wiser  than  Rosanna — Lucien,  if  that  were  the 
service  I wanted,  would  you  promise  and  stand 
by  me  then  ?” 

“I  would” — the  words  came  from  me  in  a 
gush,  like  the  breaking  forth  of  long  pent-up 
waters — “I  would,  for  that  woman  is  yourself; 
it  was  you  that  I found  fairer,  wiser,  and  better 
than  all  the  women  in  the  world  ; it  was  you 
that  made  me  false  to  the  girl,  before  I knew 
she  had  been  false  to  me!  I never  dared  to 
say  so  before,  because  of  our  different  stations  ; 
forgive  me  for  saying  it  now,  but  believe  that 
it  is  true,  and  command  me.”  Her  hand  had 
shrunk  away  from  mine  as  if  a serpent  stung 
it ; she  had  covered  her  eyes  with  it,  and  leant 
back  on  the  sofa.  “ Lucien,  Lucien,  is  it  come 
to  that  ?”  I heard  her  gasp  out ; but  at  that 
moment  a shout  loud  enough  to  startle  all  Cur- 
zon  Street — something  between  a laugh  and  a 
howl,  but  so  shrill,  so  wicked,  so  unearthly,  as 
might  have  turned  one’s  blood  to  hear,  sounded 
from  the  opposite  corner,  and  from  behind  the 
rose-colored  hangings  out  bounded  Sally  Joyce. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 
sally’s  brain  overbalances. 

“I  have  caught  you,  I have  found  you  out, 
you  villain,  you  traitor!”  she  cried,  while  her 
eyes  glared  on  me  through  the  mass  of  rough 
gray  hair  which  draggled  over  them  ; “ out  of 
your  own  mouth  have  I heard  it,  that  you  de- 
ceived and  forsook  my  sister,  keeping  her  hang- 
ing on,  and  shirking  off  your  engagement  till 
you  drove  her  to  marry  that  scapegrace,  Charles 
Barry,  that  his  own  uncle  and  cousin  won’t  as- 
sociate with  now.  And  it  was  all  for  this  fine 
lady,  her  bank  and  her  grandeur,  was  it?  Oh, 
you  may  set  yourself,  and  look  mighty  high  and 
proper,  Madame,  but  I have  a tale  to  tell  the 
world,  and  I’ll  tell  it.  I have  seen  your  love- 
making  and  your  carrying  on ; if  I had  staid 
long  enough  behind  that  curtain,  I would  have 
seen — ” 

“Silence!”  said  I,  seizing  her  by  the  arm, 
for  the  words  she  added  were  not  to  be  repeat- 
ed, and  my  senses  had  recovered  from  the  shock 
of  her  appearance — “silence,  and  leave  this 
room ; you  shall  not  insult  Madame  Palivez 
when  I can  prevent  it.” 

“Insult  Madame  Palivez!”  she  cried,  with 
another  howl  of  a laugh;  “are  you  her  pro- 
tector ? Did  she  tell  you  whom  she  murdered 
in  Dublin,  eighteen  years  ago,  and  shut  up  my 


136 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


brother  in  a mad-house  for  fear  he  would  let  the 
world  know ! But  I’ll  do  it.  I’ll  revenge  my 
sister’s  wrongs  — I’ll  bring  the  wicked  to  jus- 
tice— and  you  too,”  she  cried,  turning  on  me  like 
a tigress,  as  I attempted  to  push  her  out  of  the 
room,  with  unheeded  threats  of  the  law  and  the 


chief  on  her  face,  in  mortal  dread  of  compromis- 
ing Madame.  Her  look  of  composure  or  rather 
complacency  was  very  nearly  as  frightful.  She 
had  started  in  surprise  at  Sally’s  first  appear- 
ance ; but  all  the  while  the  latter  shrieked,  and 
struggled,  and  tore,  she  sat  looking  at  her  as 


“And  from  behind  the  rose-colored  hangings  out  bounded  Sally  Joyce.” 


police.  It  wa§  a desperate  struggle  ; the  wild 
woman,  now  wrought  up  to  frenzy,  bit,  struck, 
and  tore  with  her  nails,  all  the  while  screaming 
out  her  threats  and  charges  in  a voice  which 
must  have  alarmed  the  whole  neighborhood,  if 
I hadn’t  kept  it  down  by  thrusting  my  handker- 


one  of  the  Spartans  might  have  looked  on  a 
drunken  Helot ; and  when  at  last  Sally  uttered 
a howl  about  murder  which  I could  not  smother, 
and  fell  at  the  room  door  in  a terrible  fit  of  con- 
vulsions, she  said,  quietly,  “Let  her  alone,  Lu- 
cien  ; the  woman  is  mad  ; her  brain  was  never 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


137 


fairly  balanced;  it  is  fairly  overset  now,  and 
will  never  right  again.  It  was  to  be  expected  ; 
I am  not  glad  it  has  happened,  for  I know  its 
origin ; but  her  talk  about  me  and  my  family 
can  do  no  harm  from  henceforth.  Leave  her, 
Lucien,  and  leave  me ; there  are  none  of  my 
English  servants  in  the  house  to-night,  or  you 
should  not  have  been  here ; I want  no  London 
gossip  about  me  and  my  friend ; but  help  must 
be  called  to  get  the  woman  removed.  Get  out 
of  sight  as  quick  as  you  can  ; at  the  end  of  the 
passage  leading  from  the  garden  gate,  take  the 
second  turn  to  your  left,  keep  straight  through 
the  courts,  and  you  will  get  out  behind  Lans- 
downe  House.  Go,  for  Heaven’s  sake,  go !” 

“ And  leave  you  here,  Madame ! What  if 
she  should  die  in  those  fearful  convulsions?” 

“No,  she  won’t;  Fortune  and  she  are  not 
such  good  friends  as  that  — go,  go ! I’m  not 
afraid  to  be  left  alone  with  a woman  in  a fit.” 
Madame  motioned  me  to  the  door  with  one 
hand,  and  with  the  other  rang  her  bell. 

“ Cyprien,”  she  said,  as  the  boy  instantly  en- 
tered, ‘ * you  have  left  the  garden  gate  open  to- 
night; look  at  this,”  pointing  to  the  writhing 
woman  on  the  floor  as  if  it  had  been  a stray  cat 
that  had  got  in,  while  I stepped  past  as  quickly  as 
I could,  hurried  over  stair,  passage,  and  garden, 
found  the  turn  to  the  left,  got  out  behind  Lans- 
downe  House,  and  reached  the  front  of  her  man- 
sion in  Curzon  Street  in  time  to  see  a sedate 
nurse-like  woman  and  a surgeon’s  assistant  ac- 
companying two  policemen  down  to  the  sunk 
flat.-  There  were  no  lights  to  be  seen,  no  noise 
to  be  heard  within ; the  house  stood  as  silent  as 
all  the  rest  of  the  street,  to  which  the  latest 
carriage  had  by  this  time  driven  home  from  ball 
or  play  ; but  in  a few  minutes  a hackney-coach 
drove  quietly  up,  the  policeman  and  the  nurse- 
like woman  brought  out  a large  bundle  covered 
with  cloaks  and  shawls,  but  in  strange  motion 
under  them,  got  it  into  the  vehicle  with  a whis- 
per or  two  among  themselves,  the  woman  get- 
ting in  beside  it,  while  the  surgeon’s  assistant 
marched  after  as  it  was  driven  slowly  into  Bol- 
ton Row,  and  the  policeman  moved  down  the 
street,  counting  silver  like  those  that  divide  the 
spoil.  Should  I return  and  see  how  Madame 
had  got  over  it  ? I heard  somebody  inside  lock- 
ing the  hall  door;  perhaps  she  did  not  wish  to 
see  me  there  ; perhaps  my  presumption  had  of- 
fended her;  yet  her  words,  “Lucien,  Lucien,  is 
it  come  to  that  ?”  had  a sound  of  grief  and  not 
of  anger.  But  I could  not  go  back  without  a 
sign  of  invitation.  I lingered  about  the  door, 
went  round  to  the  garden  gate  again  ; it,  also, 
was  fastened  for  the  night,  or  rather  the  morn- 
ing, for  day  was  breaking  by  this  time,  and  with 
a bewildered  brain  and  weary  heart  I turned 
homeward. 

The  events  of  the  night  had  been  so  many  and 
so  strange  that  mjr  thoughts  of  them  were  con- 
fused and  hazy.  I only  knew  for  certain  the  old 
fact,  that  I loved  Madame  Palivez — the  new  one, 
that  I had  dared  to  tell  her  so — that  she  wanted 
some  service  of  great  risk  and  peril,  and  that,  in 


spite  of  all  my  sister’s  warnings,  I had  pledged 
myself  to  do  it.  Pledged,  and  did  not  repent  it, 
even  then  — after  all  I had  heard  and  seen 
from  the  overset  brain  that  would  never  right 
again — and  the  proud,  stony  face  that  looked  on 
so  complacently,  because  talk  about  her  and  her 
family  could  do  no  harm  from  henceforth.  I 
was  bound  to  the  service,  and  could  not  redeem 
myself,  long  before  I promised ; and  things 
would  never  right  with  me  either.  The  convic- 
tion made  me  stop  short  on  the  now  silent  and 
solitary  road  skirting  Hyde  Park,  and  close  by 
my  own  home.  The  early  light  of  a soft  dewy 
morning  was  kindling  from  gray  to  golden  over 
woodland  and  village.  Up  the  green  sloping 
lawn  and  massive  front  of  Notting  Hill  House, 
so  old-fashioned  and  lonely — up  the  shady  path 
and  stream,  now  flashing  to  the  morning — that 
led  to  her  villa,  my  eye  wandered.  I did  not 
hear  the  lark  go  up  singing  from  park  and 
meadow — I did  not  hear  a step  that  came  along 
the  London  way  till  it  was  close  by  my  side,  and 
Melrose  Morton’s  hand  was  laid  on  my  shoulder 
with  “Where  have  you  been?  what  has  hap- 
pened to  you,  Lucien  ?” 

“ Nothing,”  said  I,  trying  to  look  as  I spoke  ; 
“ did  not  the  policeman  give  you  my  message  ?” 
“ He  did,”  said  Melrose  ; “Rhoda  and  I got 
safe  home,  and  we  should  not  have  been  fright- 
ened about  you — knowing  you  could  take  care 
of  yourself;  but,  as  we  were  sitting  at  supper, 
poor  Jeremy  Joyce  rushed  in  like  one  distract- 
ed in  search  of  his  sister  Sally.  He  said  she 
had  been  watching  you  and  Madame  Palivez 
all  the  evening  at  the  play,  and  a minute  after 
you  had  gone  out  he  and  Rosanna  missed  her. 
She  was  not  at  home  when  they  got  there ; and 
the  poor  fellow  seemed  to  think  something  must 
be  wrong,  because  Sally  had  been  so  uncommon 
queer  of  late.  Those  were  his  very  words  ; and, 
Lucien,  though  neither  Rhoda  nor  I imagined 
you  had  planned  an  elopement  with  Miss  Joyce, 
your  good  sister  was  so  much  alarmed  that  I 
ventured  out  to  look  for  you  all  round  the 
neighborhood  of  St.  James’s ; and  I am  glad 
we  have  met,  for  she  and  Nelly  are  sitting  up 
alone,  and  must  have  thought  the  time  terribly 
long.” 

“ Well,  I am  safe,  you  see,  and  sorry  to  have 
given  you  so  much  trouble,  Melrose ; but  I 
could  not  help  it.  I had  to  go  to  a friend.” 

“ I hope  it  was  a true  friend,  Lucien.  You’ll 
excuse  me  ; I am  ten  years  older  than  yourself, 
and  we  have  known  each  other  long,  ” he  said, 
looking  me  earnestly  in  the  face.  “Your  sister 
did  not  give  me  reason  to  think  you  might  be  in 
unsafe  company ; she  is  too  discreet,  too  sin- 
cerely attached  to  you.  But  I know  Rhoda 
was  not  so  much  alarmed  without  cause ; and, 
Lucien,  if  you  have  fallen  into  any  dangerous 
connection — one  which  you  would  not  wish  to 
mention  to  your  friends — reflect,  for  her  sake 
and  for  your  own,  and  give  it  up  in  time.” 

“ Melrose,  I have  formed  no  connection  either 
dangerous  or  disgraceful.” 

“Not  the  latter,  I am  sure,”  interrupted  Mor- 


138 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


ton  ; “ but  the  company  which  the  world  would 
not  reckon  disgraceful,  perhaps  very  much  the 
contrary,  may  lead  to  risks  beyond  the  common. 
There  was  a great  lady  in  a private  box  who 
was  aware  of  your  presence  at  the  play,  and  a 
Russian  prince  by  her  side,  who  took  no  friendly 
note  of  you.  Lucien,  I met  that  prince  in  a 
different  trim — something  like  his  own  footman, 
I judge — within  the  last  hour,  hanging,  and  tak- 
ing notes  too,  about  Madame  Palivez’s  man- 
sion in  Curzon  Street ; and  I am  mistaken  if 
he  were  not  fishing  intelligence  out  of  two  po- 
licemen at  the  corner.” 

I made  endeavors  not  to  appear  disconcerted 
or  angry,  yet  I was  both.  Melrose  had  been 
playing  the  spy  upon  me,  and  was  now  playing 
the  censor.  He  kept  his  own  quarrel  with  Mr. 
Forbes  pretty  close,  and  he  should  not  intrude 
into  my  friendship  with  Madame  Palivez,  though 
his  news  about  the  Russian  was  worth  hearing ; 
it  showed  me  the  ground  on  which  I stood. 
Prince  Dashkoff  was  not  selected  and  adjured 
for  secret  service  ; but  he  had  his  aims,  his  ex- 
pectations, and  believed  me  in  the  way.  “ I 
am  much  obliged  for  your  warnings,  Melrose, 
and  I know  your  friendship  ; but  most  people 
have  some  private  affairs.  It  was  one  of  mine 
that  made  me  part  from  you  last  night.  What 
great  ladies  may  be  aware  of,  or  Russian  princes 
take  notes  of,  are  matters  that  most  concern 
themselves.  I have  no  preference  and  no  rival- 
ry to  boast ; but  I am  sorry  to  have  alarmed 
you  and  my  sister.  Let  us  go  home  together, 
and  relieve  her  and  Nelly,”  and  I took  his  arm 
in  our  old  friendly  fashion. 

“I’ll  go  with  you,  Lucien,”  he  said,  “because 
I promised  to  come  back,  though  I see  you  have 
no  confidence  in  me  ; perhaps  I had  no  right  to 
expect  you  would ; but  believe  that  my  warnings 
were  well  meant,  and  try  to  think  of  them  at 
your  leisure,  for  people  see  things  clearer  that 
way.” 

Without  another  word,  Morton  and  I walked 
to  No.  9.  Poor  Rhoda  was  at  the  door,  looking 
out  into  the  early  morning  for  her  truant  brother. 
Raymond  had  gone  away,  and  never  returned  to 
us ; and  I knew  that  recollection  had  been  press- 
ing hard  on  my  sister’s  heart,  for  she  flung  her 
arms  about  me,  saying,  “Lucien, dear, thank  God 
you  have  come  back  safe  and  I promised,  in  a 
whisper,  to  explain  every  thing,  and  told  her,  in  a 
louder  tone,  not  to  be  frightened  at  my  staying 
out  late,  for  I would  get  back  again  as  sure  as  a 
bad  shilling.  Melrose  looked  sadly  on  us  both, 
and  only  said  he  must  play  the  bad  shilling,  and 
get  home  too  ; and  rejecting  all  persuasions  to 
come  in  and  rest  after  his  travels  in  search  of  me, 
he  bade  us  “ Good-morning,”  and  walked  rapidly 
away.  When  he  was  gone  I told  Rhoda  a half- 
true  tale — that  I had  been  sent  for  by  Madame 
Palivez  because  Sally  Joyce  was  annoying  her 
— wanting  money  and  nobody  knew  what,  on 
account  of  her  father  and  brother  having  been 
in  the  bank  at  Dublin.  I was  not  sure  that  it 
satisfied  my  sister;  but  she  had  been  used  to 
hear  the  half  of  things;  and  fairly  worn  out 


with  the  finery,  wonders,  and  troubles  of  that 
night,  the  poor  girl  asked  no  questions,  but  re- 
tired with  her  trusty  Nelly  to  get  some  hours’ 
sleep ; and  I,  like  a restless  spirit,  paced  about 
our  little  house  and  garden  till  it  was  time  to  go 
to  the  bank. 


CHAPTER  XLIY. 

AN  UNKNOWN  VISITOR. 

Of  the  day  that  thus  dawned,  and  two  or 
three  subsequent,  I recollect  only  that  Esthers 
was  scarcely  in  the  office  at  all ; that  when  he 
did  come  it  was  like  one  preoccupied,  and  in 
great  haste  to  get  out  again.  He  did  not  speak 
to  me,  and  pretended  not  to  be  aware  of  my 
presence.  Business  was  particularly  slack  with 
us  then  ; and  being  by  that  time  no  apprentice 
clerk.  I could  do  very  wrell  without  the  manager’s 
oversight,  and  better  without  his  company. 
There  was  little  to  do,  but  I had  much  to  think 
of;  the  sights  and  sounds  of  that  gay,  luxurious 
bower  in  Curzon  Street  filled  my  hours,  and 
made  them  pass  in  a dream  of  Madame  Palivez. 
Her  talk  of  approaching  death,  her  statement 
about  the  loss  of  memory,  the  vow  I had  taken 
to  her  service,  the  words  I had  dared  to  speak 
to  her,  the  howl  of  insane  laughter  from  behind 
the  curtain,  the  wild  woman  breaking  out  upon 
us  with  her  madly  malicious  look,  her  unintel- 
ligible threats,  and,  clear  above  them  all,  her 
question  to  myself,  “Did  she  tell  you  who  it 
was  she  murdered  eighteen  years  ago  in  Dub- 
lin?” I could  not  forget  those  words:  they 
haunted  me  like  a nightmare ; but  I tried  to 
see  Madame,  nevertheless  ; my  alarm  and  anx- 
iety after  what  had  passed  were  surely  sufficient 
excuses  for  venturing  into  her  presence.  I in- 
quired for  her  at  the  private  door  in  the  first 
evening ; the  porter  summoned  Calixi,  and  he 
assured  me  that  Madame  was  not  there.  I went 
up  to  the  villa : old  Marco  came  out,  as  usual, 
at  the  opening  of  the  gate ; but  there  she  was 
not  at  home  either;  and  when  I asked  him  if 
he  could  tell  me  where  Madame  was,  the  old 
man  said,  with  a look  of  honest  bewilderment, 
“ Signor,  I can  not.”  She  had  promised  never 
to  be  denied  to  me,  and  I could  not  believe 
that  system  was  adopted  now.  I had  been  sent 
for  to  see  her  in  Curzon  Street — would  it  be  too 
presumptuous  to  go  there  and  try  the  garden 
gate?  But  the  memory  of  her  words — “My 
English  servants  are  not  in  the  house  to-night, 
or  you  should  not  have  been  here,”  checked  me. 
Madame  must  not  be  compromised  by  her  En- 
glish clerk. 

I was  balancing  these  considerations  in  the 
last  of  her  bank  hours — I think,  on  the  third 
evening — when  I became  aware  of  somebody 
having  entered  the  quiet  house — it  was  always 
most  quiet  at  that  hour — and  making  inquiries 
of  the  porter.  I could  catch  first  the  manager’s, 
and  then  my  own  name ; and  in  another  minute 
the  porter  said,  “A  gentleman  wishing  to  see 
you,  sir,”  and  showed  in  a foreign-looking  man, 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


139 


well  dressed,  but  with  something  decidedly  vul- 
gar and  mean-looking  about  him.  He  was  a 
stranger  to  me,  appeared  to  be  in  middle  age,  and 
from  my  knowledge  of  the  race  in  their  comings 
about  the  bank,  I recognized  his  features  as  un- 
mistakably Russian.  It  was  a sort  of  inward 
warning  that  made  me  give  him,  on  his  first  en- 
trance, a look  of  “ What  is  your  business  here  ?” 
and  it  half  disconcerted  him — I suppose  nothing 
could  wholly — and  he  repeated  his  inquiries  for 
the  manager. 

“ He  is  not  in  the  office  at  present,”  said  I, 
“ and  I believe  the  porter  mentioned  to  you 
that  he  was  not  in  the  house ; but  if  you  have 
any  message  to  leave,  or  any  particular  busi- 
ness, I am  the  English  clerk  of  the  establish- 
ment, and  at  your  service.” 

“Is  Madame  Palivez  within?”  said  the  Rus- 
sian, seating  himself  on  the  nearest  vacant  chair, 
and  spying  at  me  out  of  his  narrow  eyes. 

“No,”  said  I,  “ Madame  Palivez  is  rarely  at 
the  bank,  but  her  private  residence  is  next  door. 
The  porter  will  direct  you  to  it  at  once.” 

“Does  Madame  not  manage  her  own  busi- 
ness, then?  I understood  she  did,  and  had  a 
regular  communication  between  the  two  houses ; 
in  fact,  I expected  to  find  her  here.  ” What  good, 
plain  English  the  man  spoke,  and  with  what  a 
look  of  collected  brass  he  gazed  round  the  office 
and  stared  at  me. 

“You  have  not  been  properly  informed,”  said 
I,  falling  to  my  papers  and  pen  with  as  much  cool 
abstraction  as  I could  muster;  “Madame  is  not 
here,  but  you  will  find  her  at  home  next  door. 
If  you  have  any  message  for  Mr.  Esthers,  the 
manager,  be  so  good  as  to  leave  it,  for  my  time 
is  limited,  and  the  bank  will  soon  be  shut  up.” 

“My  business  is  particular — very;  in  fact,  I 
am  a merchant  in  the  Baltic  trade,  accustomed 
to  deal  with  the  house,  and  you  are  Mr.  La 
Touche,  the  English  clerk,  very  much  in  Ma- 
dame’s  confidence,  I understand.  Can  you 
noAv,”  and  he  leant  toward  me  with  a manner 
at  once  insolent  and  fawning,  “tell  me  where 
she  is  to  be  found?  I would  make  it  worth 
your  while.  My  business  is  very  important. 
She  is  a very  odd  lady,  that  Madame  of  yours — 
a deal  of  whims  and  private  goings  on,  hasn’t 
she?  You  know  them  pretty  well.  Come, 
come,  you  need  not  deny  it,”  and  he  sidled 
nearer  as  I was  about  to  speak.  ‘ ‘ All  the  city 
know  that  you  are  in  her  confidence,  far  more 
than  the  Jew  manager  or  any  body  else.  That’s 
her  way.  She  had  a clerk  in  Dublin  taken  up 
in  the  same  fashion.  Got  to  know  more  than 
was  safe,  maybe.  She  is  a wonderful  woman, 
and  nobody  ever  knew  what  became  of  him. 
Some  say  he  is  in  a madhouse,  some  say  he  is 
dead — died  very  suddenly,  they  say.” 

“ Sir, ’’said  I,  rising  in  real  indignation  at  the 
manifest  intention  to  frighten  me,  “is  it  your 
particular  business  here  to  make  malicious  and 
false  insinuations  against  my  employer?” 

“ Oh  dear,  no,”  said  the  Russian,  not  a whit 
abashed,  “I  can  arrange  a little  matter  with 
her  or  her  manager,  Mr.  Esthers,  you  call  him  ; 


and  as  there  was  nobody  here,  I thought  we 
might  have  a little  friendly  talk ; you  are  a gen- 
tleman I have  heard  so  much  of — one  don’t  feel 
one’s  self  a stranger  to  people  one  has  heard  of, 
you  know.” 

“From  whom  did  you  hear  of  me,  sir?”  and 
I looked  him  steadily  in  the  face. 

“From  a good  many  different  people.”  The 
man’s  bluntness  and  vulgarity  were  mighty  de- 
fenses. “A  young  man  taken  into  confidence 
by  a great  lady  is  apt  to  get  talked  about,  tmd 
you’ll  allow  me  to  say  I don’t  wonder  at  her 
preference.  There  is  something  uncommonly 
prepossessing  in  your  appearance,  sir.  It  was 
that,  and  a friendly  concern  for  a man  younger 
than  myself,  that  made  me  mention  what  I hap- 
pen to  know  of  Madame’s  ways.  A man  warn- 
ed is  half  armed.  I know  the  house  and  its  lady 
well.  I am  an  independent  merchant,  and  have 
no  cause  to  speak  against  Madame  but  an  hon- 
est regard  for  you.” 

“ Sir,”  said  I,  in  plain  terms,  “I  neither  be- 
lieve nor  thank  you,  and  if  that  is  the  whole  of 
your  important  business,  I repeat  that  my  time 
is  limited,  and  the  bank  will  soon  be  shut.” 

“Well,  I can  come  some  other  time  when 
Mr.  Esthers  is  within,  and  I am  very  sorry  you 
take  a civil  hint  so  badly,”  said  the  Russian, 
looking  calmly  around  him ; then  rising  without 
the  slightest  embarrassment  or  sign  of  anger,  he 
added,  “You  are  uncommon  like  the  clerk  that 
disappeared.  I wish  you  a very  good-evening,” 
and  stepped  out  as  quietly  as  he  came  in. 

That  man  was  no  Baltic  merchant,  but  an 
emissary  of  somebody.  Could  it  be  of  the  Rus- 
sian prince  who  took  unfriendly  notes  of  me, 
according  to  Melrose  Morton’s  observations  at 
the  play  ? His  errand  was  evidently  to  make 
out  how  matters  stood  between  me  and  Madame. 
I could  have  pardoned  that,  but  not  his  endeav- 
or to  frighten  me  with  a story  of  the  vanished 
clerk,  and  it  must  have  been  a more  than  com- 
monly disciplined  life  that  kept  my  Irish  blood 
from  kicking  him  out  of  the  office. 

There  was  some  truth  in  that  tale  which  he 
had  got  hold  of.  It  had  to  do  with  Sally  Joyce’s 
ravings;  probably  with  the  ragged  man  whose 
arm  and  knife  I had  seized  in  time.  At  any 
rate,  Madame  should  be  apprised  of  the  Russian’s 
visit ; that  was  a better  apology  than  any  I had 
for  trying  to  see  her  in  Curzon  Street.  Ac- 
cordingly, as  soon  as  the  bank  was  shut,  I made 
my  way  to  Berkeley  Square,  got  through  the 
courts  and  the  turnings,  and  tried  the  garden 
gate,  but  it  was  fast.  Through  the  bars  I could 
see  the  grass  and  flowers,  the  high  walls  that 
shut  them  in  on  every  side,  but  not  the  door  of 
entrance ; it  was  in  the  corner,  and  hidden  by  a 
rose-bush  of  uncommon  magnitude.  There  w^as 
no  window  looking  into  that  garden,  no  sound 
to  be  heard  from  the  house,  no  sign  of  life  to  be 
seen.  I retraced  my  steps  and  got  into  Curzon 
Street.  The  mansion  was  shut  up  as  I had  seen 
it  last ; above  and  below,  there  was  nobody  at 
home  or  visible.  To  knock  at  the  door,  and  in- 
quire of  the  person  in  charge,  if  any  such  there 


140 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


were,  was  a proceeding  I could  not  take  upon 
myself;  the  caution  that  forbade  it  reminded 
me  that  I should  not  stand  there  gazing  at  the 
deserted  mansion ; and  as  I turned  from  it,  with- 
out thinking  where  I was  going,  into  Bolton  Row, 
two  men  who  had  been  talking  together  at  the 
corner  suddenly  separated;  one  of  them  I did 
not  catch  sight  of  in  time  nor  where  he  turned 
to,  but  the  other,  who  came  forward  to  meet  me, 
was  Jeremy  Joyce.  “ Oh,  Mr.  La  Touche,”  said 
the  ever-subdued  clerk,  “have  you  heard  of  what 
has  happened  to  us?  Sally  is  gone  out  of  her 
mind  entirely.  Something  disturbed  her  at  the 
play,  and  she  went  off  to  Madame  Palivez’s 
house.  I don’t  know  what  put  it  in  her  head, 
but  Sally  was  always  fond  of  fine  places  and 
people — so  she  should  ; you  see  her  mother  was 
a lady — and  I don’t  know  what  happened  to  her 
there.  She  was  not  at  home,  and  I thought 
she  had  gone  with  you ; but  before  I got  back 
they  fetched  her  in  a hackney-coach.  We 
thought  it  was  a fit  at  first ; but,  Mr.  La  Touche, 
she  has  been  quite  distracted,  quite  frantic  since. 
We  have  had  no  rest  with  her  day  nor  night — 
screeching  and  tearing  with  two  keepers  to 
prevent  her  from  finishing  Rosanna  and  me. 
Charles  Barry  would  not  stand  it  at  all,  and 
went  to  some  hotel;  the  people  of  the  house 
wouldn’t  have  us  any  longer  in  their  rooms. 
Mr.  Forbes  was  very  good;  gave  me  a week’s 
holiday,  and  came  to  look  after  her  himself  and 
Miss  Helen,  but  they  could  do  nothing.  She 
only  screeched  the  more,  and  talked  such  un- 
common things ; and  Madame  Palivez — she  is 
always  kind,  you  know — got  her  into  the  asy- 
lum at  last,  just  to  save  our  lives,”  and  Jeremy 
looked  quite  resigned  to  that  settlement  of  the 
sister  who  had  governed  him  with  such  absolute 
sway. 

“ Is  Sally  gone  to  the  asylum,  then  ?”  said  I. 

“Yes, ’’said  somebody  over  my  shoulder,  and 
there  was  Esthers;  “Madame  Palivez  got  her 
sent.  She  always  sends  people  there  when  it 
suits  her  convenience.  Sally  went  out  of  her 
mind  at  Madame’s  house ; do  you  mark  that, 
Mr.  La  Touche  ? the  like  has  happened  to  people 
before,  and  may  happen  to  people  again.”  He 
had  got  in  between  Jeremy  and  me  by  this  time, 
and  his  look  reminded  me  so  much  of  Sally’s 
that  I could  not  help  saying,  “Well,  Mr.  Est- 
hers, I hope  it  will  not  happen  to  you.” 

The  effect  of  my  own  words  astonished  me. 
The  Jew  staggered  back  as  if  I had  struck  him 
with  all  my  strength.  His  dark  face  turned 
white  as  paper,  and,  without  attempting  an  an- 
swer, he  turned  on  his  heel  and  moved  away, 
rapidly  quickening  his  pace  till  he  turned  the 
corner  and  was  out  of  sight. 

“Esthers  don’t  like  it  at  all,”  said  Jeremy, 
keeping  close  to  my  side,  as  if  bent  on  telling 
his  woes.  “ You  see  Sally  did  go  to  Madame’s 
house,  and  did  go  out  of  her  mind  there,  and  we 
don’t  know  what  happened  till  she  was  fetched 
home,  and  she  must  have  gone  out  of  the  thea- 
tre just  after  you,  Mr.  La  Touche;  and  your 
sister  and  the  gentleman  did  not  know  where 


you  were,  and  Sally  raved  so  about  you  and 
Madame.  She  always  had  a great  regard  for  you.” 

“Well,”  said  I,  “I  had  no  hand  in  sending 
her  out  of  her  mind,  and  I am  sure  neither  had 
Madame.  Perhaps  there  was  madness  in  Sally’s 
family — I don’t  mean  your  side  of  it — but  Mr. 
Esthers  is  her  brother;  he  ought  to  know.” 

“Oh  dear,  yes,”  said  Jeremy,  much  taken 
aback;  “but  there  never  was  any  thing  of  the 
kind,  to  our  knowledge.  - Afflictions  will  happen 
in  any  family,  Mr.  La  Touche.  I suppose  you 
are  not  so  sorry  for  us  as  you  would  have  been 
once,  not  that  I think  the  fault  wasn’t  more  on 
your  side  than  Rosanna’s ; but  you  are  in  favor, 
and  we  are  little  thought  of.  I hope  it  will  all 
end  well,”  and  Jeremy  walked  quickly  away  to 
the  attic,  where  his  sister  was  to  have  seen  fash- 
ionable life. 

Subdued,  commanded,  scolded,  Jeremy  had, 
as  the  poorest  brains  will  have,  his  own  notions 
of  dignity  and  importance,  his  own  small  cun- 
ning to  conceal  and  ferret  out  matters,  and  his 
own  petty  share  of  envy  and  malice  to  me. 
What  a variety  of  enemies  I had  got  by  that 
unpublished  friendship  ; but  it  was  for  her  sake, 
and  I took  something  like  a martyr’s  pride  in 
their  increase.  Moreover,  would  it  not  raise 
my  worth  and  service  in  her  eyes  ? But  where 
had  she  gone,  and  why  could  I not  see  her  to 
make  my  revelations  ? 


CHAPTER  XLY. 

HELEN  FORBES  LOVES,  AND  IS  JEALOUS. 

I was  revolving  these  questions  in  my  mind 
when  very  near  home  on  the  Bayswater  Road, 
which  happened  to  be  more  than  usually  quiet 
that  evening;  but  the  flutter  of  a brown  skirt 
coming  out  of  Petersburg  Place  caught  my  eye, 
and  I hastened  forward  to  meet  Helen  Forbes. 
She  had  seen,  and  was  waiting  for  me,  and  the 
soft  evening  air  had  told  on  her  generally  color- 
less cheek,  I thought,  for  it  had  taken  a rosy 
tinge  as  bright  as  my  sister’s,  whom  she  had  been 
visiting. 

“I  dare  say  that  Rhoda  is  glad  to  get  quit  of 
me ; I am  quite  ashamed  to  have  occupied  so 
much  of  her  time,”  she  said,  after  our  friendly 
greeting;  “but  we  have  been  talking  about  a 
great  many  things ; ladies  wdll,  you  know,  when 
they  get  together ; is  not  that  what  you  censori- 
ous men  say?  always  finding  fault  with  our 
tongues.”  I exculpated  myself  and  sex  in  the 
most  gallant  manner  I could  assume,  and  Helen 
smiled  and  flushed  till  she  reminded  me  more 
of  Rosanna  than  herself. 

“That’s  all  very  good-;  but  papa  and  I were 
wondering  what  had  become  of  you,  Mr.  La 
Touche.” 

“ I understood  your  father  was  from  home,” 
said  I;  what  made  me  think  of  such  an  excuse? 
Helen’s  face  fell  grave  and  sad  again. 

“ Oh  yes ! he  was  from  home  for  a few  days; 
he  had  some  business  in  Bath,  and  I partly  per- 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


Ul 


suaded  him  to  go ; papa  is  growing  so  nervous 
and  low-spirited.  I am  afraid  he  attends  his 
business  too  closely,  and  sees  too  little  company. 
I am  but  poor  company  for  him  at  home,  and 
he  don’t  care  for  any  body  else  but  you.  I wish 
you  had  time  to  come  and  see  us  as  often  as  Mr. 
Esther  does.” 

“ Has  Mr.  Esthers  been  visiting  you  lately?” 
I thought  of  his  absence  from  the  office, 

“ Oh  yes,  he  is  always  coming ; when  papa 
was  from  home  I had  to  come  down  and  tell 
him  so  plainly ; he  would  take  no  denial  from 
James,  and  you  know  I would  not  receive  any 
gentleman  except — except  yourself,”  said  Hel- 
en, wiping  her  face  with  her  handkerchief ; 44  we 
are  such  very  old  friends.” 

44  Of  course  we  are,”  said  I ; 44  and  Mr.  Est- 
hers has  no  right  to  intrude  where  he  is  not 
tvanted.  If  I might  venture  to  advise  your 
father  and  you,  Miss  Eorbes,  I should  say,  make 
no  ceremony  with  such  a person.  If  a man 
shows  himself  destitute  of  gentlemanly  feeling 
and  delicacy,  he  ought  to  be  dealt  with  accord- 
ingly, and  get  what  they  call  in  my  country  a 
genteel  invitation  to  stay  at  home.  ” 

44  We  must  not  be  too  ready  to  make  harsh 
constructions,  you  know.  Papa  thinks  him 
friendly  on  the  whole,  and  believes  he  might 
get  some  good,  some  serious  impressions  in  our 
society  ; and  this  is  a world  in  which  we  are  all 
called  upon  to  do  what  good  we  can;  speaking 
of  which  reminds  me  of  the  grievous  dispensa- 
tion meted  out  to  the  poor  Joyce  family.  No 
doubt  you  are  aware  of  it — poor  Jeremy  Joyce, 
our  clerk’s  sister,  she  went  to  a play,  I under- 
stand, and  was  suddenly  struck  with  madness ; 
an  awful  dispensation,  Mr.  La  Touche,  and 
very  like  a judgment,  though  it  is  not  right  to 
think  uncharitably.  Poor  Sally  (is  not  that  her 
name  ?)  was  always  given  to  gayeties  and  friv- 
olities, I understand ; would  live  in  the  most 
fashionable  part  of  London,  though  the  family 
income  is  narrow  enough,  and  never  gave  her 
brother  or  sister  peace  or  rest  with  her  love  of 
plays  and  spectacles.  Oh,  Mr.  La  Touche,  is 
it  not  a warning  ?” 

44  A warning  as  regards  sudden  outbreak  of 
brain  disease  long  in  the  constitution,”  said  I, 
somewhat  amused  at  the  serious  young  lady’s 
version  of  the  affair.  44  Poor  Sally’s  head  wras 
never  steady,  and  the  insanity  which  I believe 
she  inherited  from  her  mother  has  at  length 
come  upon  her,  perhaps,  as  you  think,  acceler- 
ated by  the  excitement  of  the  play,  which  wras 
a very  fine  one.  My  sister  and  I had  the  pleas- 
ure of  witnessing  its  performance,”  and  I looked 
Miss  Forbes  very  straight  in  the  face,  but  the 
acid  of  Scotch  Calvinism  was  not  so  easily  con- 
quered. 44 1 am  sorry  you  should  find  pleasure 
in  such  scenes,  Mr.  La  Touche.  I am  sure  you 
can  find  no  profit — that  is,  no  spiritual  profit,” 
said  Helen,  settling  into  the  admonishing  man- 
ner once  reserved  for  Charles  Barry. 

44  Opinions  will  differ  on  that  as  tvell  as  on 
other  subjects,  Miss  Forbes;  but  probably  nei- 
ther you  nor  I could  convince  each  other.” 


“Perhaps  we  could  not,  and  perhaps  it  is 
taking  too  much  upon  myself  to  dispute  the 
point  with  you ; but  I spoke  as  a friend,  and 
from  my  own  convictions;”  the  admonishing 
was  all  gone,  and  she  looked  sad  and  timid. 

44  Whatever  you  say  will  be  honest  and  friend- 
ly, and  I,  above  all  the  world,  have,  a right  to 
hear  it  with  respect  and  attention.” 

“Oh  dear,  no — not  at  all,”  she  interrupted 
my  amends  - making  ; “you  are  far  wiser,  far 
more  learned  than  I am,  and  though  you  may 
call  it  prejudice,  and  maybe  laugh  at  me,  I be- 
lieve you  will  come  to  think  as  we  do  yet,  and 
not  be  conformed  t6  the  fashions  of  the  wrorld 
which  passeth  away.  But,  to  change  the  sub- 
ject, now  you  will  laugh  at  me  for  being  curi- 
ous too.  How  was  it  that  poor  Sally  Joyce  got 
into  Madame  Palivez’s  house?” 

“That  I can  not  tell  you,”  said  I,  speaking 
with  a very  safe  conscience. 

44 1 thought  you  might  have  seen  or  heard 
something  of  it,  she  raved  so  about  you  and  Ma- 
dame ; it  was  dreadful  to  hear  her  going  on 
about  a murder  which  she  imagined  you  had 
committed  that  night ; I am  not  sure  if  it  were 
you  or  Madame  the  poor  creature  meant,  she 
talked  so  wildly,  and  always  finished  her  story 
with  a terrible  dark  asylum,  to  which  she  in- 
sisted you  were  going.” 

“A  confused  notion  of  her  own  destiny,” 
said  I. 

44  No  doubt  that  is  the  proper  explanation ; 
you  would  understand  it  all  when  you  saw  her,” 
said  Helen,  altogether  unconscious  that  my 
dread  of  having  the  boudoir  scene  rehearsed,  or 
attracting  the  attention  of  the  Joyces  to  my 
whereabouts  after  I left  the  play,  had  kept  me 
from  making  the  smallest  inquiry  in  Bolton 
Row;  44 and  they  have  got  her  sent  to  a very 
well  conducted  humane  establishment,”  she 
continued;  “Madame  Palivez  did  it  for  them. 
How  kind  that  lady  has  been  to  the  poor  family 
whose  father  served  in  her  bank ! She  may 
be  singular,  being  so  very  rich,  and  a Greek; 
foreign  ways  are  not  like  ours,  and  Madame 
has  chosen  to  live  single,  which  is  always  pe- 
culiar.” 

“Do  you  think  so,  Miss  Forbes?”  I had 
stepped  close  up  to  her,  with  the  intention  of 
offering  my  arm,  and  either  taking  her  back  to- 
No.  9,  or  seeing  her  safe  home.  I had  got  up 
to  the  quizzing  point,  and  she  had  begun  to 
laugh  at  her  own  admission,  when  there  came 
along  the  quiet  road  a sound  of  horse’s  hoofs, 
the  gleam  of  a white  mane,  the  flutter  of  a green 
habit,  and  Madame  Palivez,  mounted  on  her 
Zara,  came  galloping  toward  us.  My  heart  saw 
her  before  my  eyes,  but  for  my  very  soul  I 
could  not  have  kept  them  from  fixing  on  her. 
It  was  Madame’s  custom  to  pass  me  without 
word  or  look  of  recognition  ; but  now,  before  I 
had  time  to  bethink  or  check  myself,  she  slack- 
ed rein,  stopped  within  a pace  or  two,  and  sa- 
luted me  with,  44  Good-evening,  Mr.  La  Touche,” 
at  the  same  time  making  a courteous  bow  to 
Helen.  Never  did  the  lady  look  more  gay  or 


142 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


graceful,  the  rich  bloom  of  her  cheek  heightened 
by  that  evening  gallop ; the  always  bright,  in- 
telligent eyes,  the  braids  of  shining  hair,  which 
had  somehow  broken  band,  and  were  fallen 
loose  and  wavy  under  her  riding  hat,  might 
have  become  Artemis  returning  from  her  most 
successful  hunt.  “Well  met,”  she  said,  “ and 
unexpectedly.  I should  have  seen  you  sooner, 
but  have  been  much  occupied.  I shall  be  at 
home  in  the  villa  to-morrow  evening ; come  to 
me,  for  I have  much  to  say.” 

“ I will  come,  Madame.”  The  words  and  the 
look  had  possessed  me  to  such  a degree  that  I 
forgot  the  woman  who  had  been  standing  by  my 
side — had  been,  but  was  not  now ; Helen  had 
returned  Madame’s  bend,  and  moved  away. 
“Go  and  join  your  company,”  said  the  bank 
lady,  looking  kindly  reproving ; “ delicate,  sens- 
ible girl,  how  quickly  she  got  out  of  hearing ! 
Lucien,  we  will  speak  of  her  to-morrow.  Good- 
by  !”  She  gave  the  reins  a twitch  and  galloped 
away  to  London.  I stood  for  a minute  where 
she  left  me,  a joyful  but  bewildered  man,  and 
then  I recollected  my  duty  to  Miss  Forbes,  who 
was  walking  quickly  home.  In  mv  haste  to 
rectify  matters,  I ran  up  to  her,  offered  my 
arm,  and  avowed  she  must  come  back  to  No.  9, 
and  take  tea  with  Rhoda  and  me. 

“ Oh  no,  thank  you,”  said  Helen,  in  a clear, 
high  tone,  at  the  same  time  drawing  down  her 
veil,  but  not  before  I saw  there  were  tears  in  her 
eyes ; “we  have  not  dined  yet,  and  I am  ex- 
pecting papa  home ; good-by,  Mr.  La  Touche  ; 
I should  apologize  to  you  as  well  as  your  sister 
for  having  spent  so  much  of  your  time.”  She 
gave  me  her  hand  quickly,  still  holding  her  veil 
down.  I stammered  something  about  being  al- 
ways happy  to  spend  time  with  her,  and  before 
I could  get  any  thing  else  gathered,  she  turned 
up  the  road  at  a pace  I had  never  thought  her 
capable  of  walking. 

I stood  and  looked  after  her  till  she  was  up 
the  avenue  and  in  at  the  gate,  then  I turned  and 
gazed  Londonward,  where  Madame  Palivez  had 
disappeared,  and  in  my  mind  there  was  a strange 
turmoil  of  joy  and  sorrow,  of  hope  and  fear.  I 
had  seen  the  lady  of  my  thoughts  and  bondage  ; 
she  was  not  offended  at  the  revelation  I had 
dared  to  make  at  last,  after  so  much  holding 
back  and  hiding.  She  had  bidden  me  come, 
and  had  much  to  say.  I was  bound  to  her  serv- 
ice by  heart  and  hand  ; I would  be  proud  to  do 
or  suffer  any  thing  for  her  sake  ; oh  that  all  the 
bank  were  in  ashes,  and  she  had  no  dependence 
in  the  world  but  me,  that  I might  prove  the 
truth  and  loyalty  of  my  affection  for  herself 
alone ! But  that  brief  interview  had  brought 
me  a discovery — one  never  dreamt  of,  though 
perhaps  it  should  have  been — the  only  daughter 
of  Mr.  Forbes,  my  family’s  best  and  only  friend, 
the  stay  of  their  adversity,  the  help  of  their  last 
remaining  branches,  to  whom  I owed  every 
thing,  for  their  sakes  and  for  my  own  — that 
man’s  only  and  well-beloved  daughter  had  fixed 
her  heart  on  me.  I was  hot  so  vain,  so  heart- 
less a man  as  to  be  proud  of  the  conquest.  I 


had  not  made  it  intentionally,  and  Helen  had 
kept  her  secret  well.  Her  worth  was  known  to 
me,  in  spite  of  strict  Presbyterianism  and  an 
overshadowed  life,  a plain  face,  and  sober,  un- 
attractive ways.  I had  seen,  and  had  sense 
enough  to  value,  her  sterling  qualities  of  heart 
and  mind,  and  I never  valued  them  more  than 
at  that  moment,  when  a sudden  flash,  struck 
out  by  that  accidental  encounter,  had  enlight- 
ened me  on  the  way  her  thoughts  were  going. 
I don’t  think  I was  naturally  vain ; a tough 
struggle  with  the  world  is  apt  to  take  that  folly 
out  of  a man,  and  I had  got  a lesson  not  to  be 
forgotten  in  the  case  of  Rosanna.  The  once 
deceived  will  not  readily  help  to  cheat  them- 
selves a second  time,  and  the  difference  between 
Helen  Forbes  and  Rosanna  Joyce  was  that  be- 
tween a saint  and  a milliner’s  girl.  I did  not 
deceive  myself,  and  I was  not  deceived  ; the 
light  had  flashed  on  me  unsought  and  unex- 
pected, and  what  was  I to  do  ? Give  up  Miss 
Forbes’s  society,  avoid  her  father’s  house,  get 
misinterpreted  by  the  generous  banker,  appear 
to  slight  the  friends  who  had  stood  by  me  and 
mine  so  long,  or  keep  my  own  counsel,  pretend 
to  have  learned  nothing,  and  let  the  good,  gen- 
tle, noble-hearted  girl  believe  that  it  was  so? 
On  Helen’s  part  I knew  that  could  be  done 
without  difficulty  ; she  was  strong  in  that  wom- 
anly pride,  failing  which  there  is  no  true  del- 
icacy. I might  have  gone  on  forever  visiting 
and  conversing  with  her  as  a friend,  and  yet 
have  no  cause  to  think  myself  a preferred  man. 
But  on  my  side,  whatever  inexperienced  people 
may  think,  the  case  was  not  so  easy.  The  man 
must  be  virtuous,  wise,  or  cold  beyond  the  com- 
mon who  can  know  himself  to  be  loved,  and  act 
as  if  he  knew  it  not. 

Henceforth  I must  be  always  on  the  defense 
of  my  own  motives,  always  careful  to  prove  that 
I was  nothing  but  a friend ; and,  what  was 
worse,  that  would  have  to  be  proved  to  the  father 
as  well  as  the  daughter.  By  the  light  I had 
now,  signs  could  be  read  that  had  formerly  es- 
caped me.  The  banker  always  looked  pleased 
at  seeing  us  together  — had  not  spared  his 
daughter’s  praises  ; they  were  every  word  true, 
I could  have  pledged  my  life  on  it,  but  there 
was  the  meaning  of  his  advice  against  Madame 
Palivez,  and  adjurations  to  look  out  for  a faith- 
ful, affectionate  wife.  In  the  world’s  eye,  what 
a chance  for  a young  clerk  without  prospects  or 
connections,  a flourishing  business  to  step  into 
as  son-in-law  and  heir,  a highly  respectable 
family  to  be  connected  with,  and  the  girl  her- 
self— shame  on  me,  that  I did  not  rate  her  na- 
tive worth  above  it  all.  But  my  foolish  heart, 
ay,  and  my  foolish  hopes,  were  gone  after  Ma- 
dame Palivez ; coujd  it  be  that  she  loved  me 
too?  the  thought  made  my  brain  spin  round  in 
the  wildest  of  all  dances.  What  was  to  be  said 
to-morrow  evening  in  the  villa  ? She  had  ac- 
costed me  on  the  public  highway  in  the  presence 
of  a third  party,  and  she  was  to  speak  of  Helen 
— to  what  purpose  ? If  those  two  women  were 
rivals,  all  history  and  all  satire  were  at  fault, 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


143 


for  none  could  speak  more  nobly  of  each  other. 
But  I had  to  go  home  with  my  unspeakable  dis- 
coveries and  expectations,  and  live  as  best  I 
could  to  the  next  evening. 


CHAPTER  XL  VI. 

KILLING  NO  MURDER. 

How  much  of  life  is  consumed  in  waiting, 
and  there  is  no  time  harder  to  pass ! It  passes, 
nevertheless,  as  the  intervening  night  and  day 
passed  with  me,  and  in  the  sunset  light  I was 
at  the  villa  gate,  with  the  brass  key  and  my 
golden  hopes.  It  was  the  jessamine  time  again, 
the  season  at  which  I had  been  first  admitted  to 
her  woodland  retreat.  She  must  have  loved  that 
latest  child  of  the  summer,  and  heir  of  all  its 
sweetness ; veranda,  window,  and  door  were 
wreathed  with  its  green  tendrils  and  pale  blos- 
soms; all  the  air  about  wras  filled  with  its  fra- 
grance, and  flower  and  odor  yet  bring  back  to 
me  the  lady  of  the  villa  as  she  looked  when  I 
saw  her  last  in  her  summer  rooms,  white  dress, 
and  braided  hair,  with  one  large  white  rose 
from  her  own  garden  twined  in  the  shining 
bands.  I thought  she  had  never  seemed  so 
glad  to  see  me,  never  welcomed  me  so  warmly, 
and  there  was  something  soft  and  tender  in  her 
look,  unlike  the  queenly  manner  and  high,  res- 
olute spirit  which  marked  her  at  all  times  above 
the  mass  of  women.  “ Sit  down  here  beside 
me,  Lucien,”  she  said,  “and  give  me  your  opin- 
ion on  a subject  which  has  somehow  come 
into  my  thoughts  this  evening.”  I had  never 
sat  by  her  side  till  then,  and  to  my  bewitched 
brain  it  seemed  like  the  first  glimpse  of  Para- 
dise ; but  she  brought  me  back  to  the  earth  by 
saying,  “Have  you  ever  read  the  old  book 
called  ‘ Killing  no  Murder  ?’  ” 

“The  pamphlet  against  Cromwell,”  said  I, 
“after  the  reading  of  which  he  is  said  never  to 
have  smiled  again.” 

“Any  nonsense  may  be  said,  my  friend,” 
and  she  smiled  scornfully;  “ Cromwell  was  not 
the  man  to  be  so  affected  by  any  body’s  pam- 
phlet ; he  knew  all  the  Royalists  could  say  be- 
fore it  was  written  ; those  who  get  and  keep  pow- 
er as  he  did  are  never  sensitive  to  people’s  say- 
ings or  writings.  But  it  was  not  of  him  or 
of  the  old  book  I was  going  to  speak ; w'hat  is 
your  opinion  of  the  argument  set  forth  in  its 
title ; are  there  not  cases  in  which  killing  would 
be  no  murder  ?”  She  was  speaking  calmly,  and, 
though  rather  surprised  at  her  strain,  I an- 
swered in  the  same  manner  : “Yes,  the  laws  of 
England,  and,  I believe,  of  most  nations,  recog- 
nize justifiable  homicide.” 

“ I do  not  speak  of  laws,  my  friend — they 
always  suit  the  interests  or  prejudices  of  their 
makers — but  of  abstract  principle.” 

“The  rule  holds  good  in  war,  then,” said  I. 

“Ay,  and  in  life’s  war,”  she  said  ; “ the  long, 
long  battle  with  evil  and  necessity,  which  we 
all  wage  from  one  generation  to  another,  gen- 


erally defeated,  at  best  with  only  half  victory, 
and  always  dear-bought.  I am  generalizing  too 
W'idely,  perhaps,  having  thought  much  on  the 
subject,  which  probably  you  have  not.  Let  us 
come  to  particulars,  then  ; may  not  cases  occur 
among  the  varieties  of  human  misfortune  in 
which  cutting  the  too  tenacious  thread  of  life 
would  be  the  best  and  wisest  thing  for  the  dis- 
missed as  well  as  for  the  dismisser  ?” 

“As  in  that  of  Virginius  and  his  daugh- 
ter ?”  said  I. 

“Yes,  and  in  those  of  thousands  more, 
pressed  on  and  shut  up  from  all  chance  of  es- 
cape by  evils  worse  than  the  villainous  decem- 
vir. You  don’t  comprehend  me  : consider  now, 
irrecoverable  and  irreparable  misfortune  of  any 
kind  sufficient  to  cut  us  off  from  our  species, 
their  pursuits,  their  hopes,  and  their  sympa- 
thies. The  like  is  not  so  uncommon,  my 
friend  ; incurable  disease,  social  degradation, 
the  power  of  enemies,  misplaced  affections 
— if  one  be  weak  enough,  though  such  are 
scarcely  worth  reckoning  on,  Lucien — would  not 
the  universal  recognition  of  the  principle  we 
discuss  save  the  world  its  hospitals  of  incura- 
bles, its  lunatic  asylums,  its  idiot  wards,  and 
all  its  other  repositories  of  useless,  stagnating, 
suffering  life  ? Would  it  not  spare  the  cottage 
cretins,  the  unmentioned  members  of  aristo- 
cratic families,  ay,  and  the  difficulties  of  royal 
ones?  What  suffering,  what  tyranny,  what 
bringing  down  of  our  whole  humanity,  and 
scope  for  all  that  is  vile  and  vulgar  in  it,  would 
have  been  spared  us  too ! There  wras  a great 
and  famous  man  of  our  own  day,  over  one  of 
whose  transactions  partisans  have  been  busy  as- 
serting and  denying  ever  since  it  was  done,  not 
to  speak  of  the  mighty  coming  out  of  moral- 
ists on  either  side,  all  because,  as  the  general 
of  an  army  obliged  to  retreat,  and  qnable  to 
take  his  sick  and  dying  with  him,  he  saved 
the  unfortunate  creatures  from  the  inflictions 
of  a cruel,  fanatical  enemy  by  an  easy  and 
rapid  poison.  It  was  hundreds,  says  one  parti- 
san ; it  was  only  some  dozens,  says  another ; 
as  if  that  had  any  thing  to  do  with  the  wrrong 
or  right  of  it.  Right  it  was,  Lucien,  as  the 
best  and  wisest  course  must  always  be,  and  the 
principle  w'ill  hold  good  in  private  as  well  as  in 
public  life.” 

“I  can  not  agree  with  you,  Madame.”  My 
senses  were  gathered  by  this  time,  and,  great 
as  her  power  wras  over  me,  my  moral  convic- 
tions were  not  to  be  so  argued  down.  “That 
principle  of  yours  would  leave  no  security,  no 
value  of  human  life ; it  would  give  lopse  rein 
to  the  worst  of  human  passions  ; covetousness, 
selfishness  of  every  kind,  would  turn  it  to 
large  account.  If  the  troublesome  and  useless 
were  to  be  got  rid  of  so  easily,  who  would  wrait 
for  landed  property  or  money  in  the  funds,  when 
nothing  but  an  old  or  imbecile  life  stood  be- 
tween it  and  them?  The  infanticide  of  Asia 
and  the  Pacific  Isles  would  be  more  than 
equaled  in  Europe ; and  suicide,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, could  be  held  no  crime.” 


144 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


“Who  said  it  was,  my  friend,  except  the 
slavish  and  cowardly  creeds  of  these  latter  days, 
the  worst  and  latest  inventions  of  priests,  where- 
by to  get  power  and  influence  over  men  ? 
That  is  what  your  boasted  Christian  faith  has 
done  for  the  world  — I mean  the ' world  that 
received  it;  sapped  its  moral  strength  and 
dwarfed  its  moral  courage  by  the  weakest  and 
most  foolish  of  all  fears — that  of  inevitable 
death ; turning  the  Liberator  and  Rest  Giver 
into  the  King  of  Terrors,  and  binding  up  the 
idea  of  him  with  church-yards  and  charnel- 
houses,  out  of  which  the  sheeted  ghost  and  the 
blood-sucking  vampire  came  to  make  the  wise 
and  beautiful  night,  the  time  of  thought,  of 
sages,  and  of  stars,  terrible  to  rustics.  The 
classic  world,  with  its  painted  tombs  and  urns, 
knew  nothing  of  them,  nothing  of  the  dread 
and  shrinking  which  the  thought  of  death 
brings  to  the  Christian  minds,  supported  by 
revelation,  as  they  say.  I do  not  speak  of  the 
Spartan  going  to  sup  with  Pluto  to  the  sound 
of  lyre  and  flute.  The  physical  courage,  the 
warlike  element  in  man,  is  not  easily  subdued 
or  sapped  away  till  the  decaying  time  of  a race 
or  system  comes.  Christianity  found  the  Greek 
and  Roman  in  that  season  ; history  proves  that 
it  neither  invigorated  nor  reclaimed  them,  for 
no  creed  can  do  so.  It  was  not  it,  but  ages 
that  civilized  the  Goth ; the  new  doctrine  en- 
listed his  strength  and  his  superstition  when  the 
northern  gods  were  losing  their  sway,  it  may  be 
because  his  migrations  rolled  too  far  from  the 
polar  circle  of  long  nights  and  winters.  Yet 
observe  how  little  the  classic  Greek  and  the 
northern  Viking  feared  to  meet  or  think  of  the 
last  enemy,  and  first  if  not  only  friend,  Lucien, 
compared  with  the  common  habit  and  thought 
of  Christian  men.  Nay,  observe  the  believer  in 
Brahma  and  Buddha.  British  officials  in  your 
Eastern  colonies  know  well  that  capital  punish- 
ments have  little  terror  for  the  Hindoo  and  the 
Chinese,  except  when  invested  with  peculiar 
horrors  of  cruelty  or  superstition.  Lucien,  your 
security  of  human  life  has  given  priestcraft  a 
fulcrum  for  its  lever  which  it  has  worked  to  the 
beating  down  of  the  popular  mind;  has  filled 
the  world  with  miserable  impediments,  as  if  its 
progress  were  not  slow  and  sad  enough,  and  I 
suppose  will  make  yourself  rue  and  regret  that 
ever  you  made  compact  and  friendship  with  me.” 

“Never,  Madame,”  said  I.  “Can  not  peo- 
ple differ  in  opinion  on  abstract  subjects,  and 
yet  be  friends  ?” 

“Yes,  Lucien;  but  abstract  subjects  some- 
times take  a concrete  form,  and  come  home  to 
one’s  own  experiences  and  necessities.  We 
won’t  go  farther  for  the  present,”  she  continued, 
hastily,  as  my  lips  opened  to  ask  an  explana- 
tion ; “I  know  you  have  news  for  me  which  I 
have  kept  you  all  this  time  from  telling.  , What 
is  it,  my  friend,  for  I must  try  to  think  you  so  ?” 

I had  no  chance  but  to  collect  my  scattered 
thoughts,  and  tell  her  all  I knew  or  could  re- 
member of  my  Russian  visitor.  Ay,  every 
word  of  his  discourse  about  the  clerk  she  had  in 


Dublin.  It  was  not  so  hard  to  tell  as  one 
would  imagine,  after  her  own  talk,  and  Madame 
listened  calmly,  as  she  did  to  all  manner  of 
strange  and  terrible  things,  her  face  growing 
more  and  more  composed  as  the  tale  went  on, 
and  making  no  remark  till  my  disclosure  was 
finished.  Then  she  said,  in  the  same  quiet 
manner,  “He  was  an  emissary  from  Prince 
Dashkoff,  the  gentleman  you  saw  in  the  box 
with  me  at  the  theatre.  His  highness  has  been 
from  home  for  some  years ; his  estates — in  the 
government  of  Archangel,  I think— are  heavily 
encumbered ; his  traveling  expenses  are  consid- 
erable ; he  knows  that  I am  the  last  of  the 
Palivezi ; he  does  not  know  that  the  house  of 
Comenzoni  are  our  heirs ; and  he  has  fixed  his 
affections  on  the  bank.  That  is  my  reading  of 
the  man  and  his  views,  easy  enough  to  read, 
because  shallow.  There  is  no  depth  beyond  a 
French  hazard-table  and  a Russian  intrigue, 
which  always  means  fibbing  and  cheating,  in 
him.  But  he  is  a relation,  I ought  to  say  an 
affinity  of  my  mother.  She  was  of  the  house 
of  Cuzenes,  great  people  in  the  Crimea,  and  of 
old  Greek  descent ; one  of  her  aunts  married 
into  the  Dashkoff  family ; the  prince  is  that 
lady’s  grandson,  a sort  of  cousin  to  me,  and  ten 
years  younger  than  myself,  though  he  does  not 
look  like  it : hazard-tables  and  their  accompa- 
niments are  apt  to  tell  unfavorably  on  a man’s 
appearance.  The  prince  was  no  great  beauty 
by  nature,  neither  was  his  mother ; but  she  had 
a hundred  times  his  capability:  you  will  read 
of  her  in  the  books  and  memoirs  of  the  time  as 
confidante  and  chief  help  of  Catharine  the  Sec- 
ond in  her  desperate  but  successful  game  of 
getting  rid  of  her  husband  and  keeping  his 
throne.  I have  heard  the  princess’s  maid  (yon 
observe  I am  given  to  gossip  like  other  old 
women)  tell  how,  on  the  night  of  the  great 
attempt,  her  mistress  sat  alone  in  the  best  room 
pf  her  palace  with  a pair  of  loaded  pistols  on 
the  table  before  her,  till  a page  came  with  the 
appointed  signal  that  all  was  right,  on  which  she 
discharged  them  successively  out  of  the  back 
window,  to  nobody’s  damage,  I believe,  remark- 
ing, ‘ It  would  have  been  through  my  own  head 
if  the  Czarina’s  plan  had  miscarried ; they  should 
not  have  got  me  to  send  to  Siberia.’  Lucien, 
£here  was  a woman  of  spirit,  whatever  else  she 
might  be  ; the  princess  was  no  relation  of  ours, 
remember,  but  a born  Russian,  the  most  capa- 
ble race  I know  for  deep  plot  and  daring  execu- 
tion. These  are  their  strong  points,  and  will 
give  them  the  advantage  of  all  the  West  in  Eu- 
rope’s waning  days,  which  seem  to  be  coming. 
But  to  return  to  his  highness : he  is  as  well  in- 
clined to  intrigue  as  his  mother,  though  not  so 
able  in  it.  He  has  been  tampering  with  Est- 
hers, or  Esthers  with  him ; I must  take  some 
measures  with  that  winding,  worming  creature.” 
And  her  eyes  flashed  with  a fierce  and  sudden 
lightning,  which  left  the  face  cold  and  calm 
again.  “He  is  a sort  of  relation  not  to  be 
acknowledged,  of  course,  but  still  related ; only 
for  that  and  for  my  father’s  promise  to  poor  un- 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


145 


cle  Alexis,  he  should  not  have  been  about  the 
house  so  long,  and  now  it  is  not  worth  while  to 
make  changes ; but  he  must  not  be  allowed  to 
give  trouble.” 

“ Have  you  thought  of  what  I mentioned  in 
my  note  about  Hannah  Clark,  Madame  ?”  I 
said,  for  the  subject  occurred  with  a force  I 
could  not  account  for  at  the  time. 

“ Oh  yes  ; you  were  perfectly  correct ; there 
is  some  intimacy  between  them,  but  the  dumb 
girl  is  exactly  the  person  least  likely  to  do  harm 
under  his  management,  and  I have  desired  Ma- 
dame Oniga  to  see  that  she  comes  to  no  harm 
herself,  which  is  not  likely  either,  for  Hannah 
seems  to  have  profited  by  her  discreet  discipline. 
Esthers  has  been  talking  nonsense  to  Prince 
Dashkoff,  however,  and  the  prince  has  been 
fishing  information  out  of  him.  Russian  high- 
nesses can  condescend  to  any  thing  when  it 
suits  their  purpose  ; but  the  result  is  satisfacto- 
ry on  the  whole  ; it  proves  how  little  the  Jew 
knows,  how  little  his  sister  could  tell  him,  with 
all  the  noisy  pretense  she  made.  By  the  way, 
that  crazed  soul  had  all  the  courage  of  the  fam- 
ily ; the  rest  have  only  craft ; and  what  an  ex- 
hibition of  both  she  made  by  following  you  or 
Cyprien  all  the  way  from  the  theatre,  and  get- 
ting behind  the  curtains  in  my  boudoir  ! That 
was  in  the  breaking-up  time  of  her  reason.  Lu- 
cien,  it  is  wonderful  what  the  unhinged  mind 
can  effect  against  material  obstacles ; an  evi- 
dence of  latent  and  unnamed  powers,  perhaps, 
but  always  useless  and  ruinous  to  itself  and 
others.  Sally  will  never  recover  her  senses ; 
there  is  no  restoration  from  that  eclipse,  though 
she  may  livelong — twenty,  thirty  years,  perhaps, 
in  a lunatic  asylum.”  Madame  seemed  to  be 
talking  to  herself — her  eyes  were  nearly  closed, 
and  at  the  last  words  her  whole  frame  shook 
with  a sudden  tremor ; but  the  next  moment 
she  looked  up  collected  and  courageous  as  ever 
I saw  her,  and  said,  “ Lucien,  would  not  that 
life  be  well  cut  short,  and  the  burdened,  fettered 
soul  set  free  to  seek  its  better  fortune  in  another 
world  ?” 

“It  would,”  said  I,  “if  such  were  its  Maker's 
will.” 

“ My  friend,  how  are  you  and  I to  discover 
that  ?” 

“By  the  event,  Madame,  which  should  nei- 
ther be  brought  about  nor  accelerated  by  human 
hands.”  I looked  her  calmly  in  the  face,  for 
the  words  were  from  my  conscience,  and  they 
seemed  to  reach  hers ; for  the  first  time  in  all 
our  acquaintance  her  eyes  drooped  under  my 
gaze ; she  sat  silent  for  a minute,  as  if  revolving 
something  hard  and  heavy  in  her  mind,  and 
then,  with  a sigh  that  seemed  involuntary,  said, 
“We  shall  never  see  things  in  the  same  light, 
Lucien  ; perhaps  it  is  not  desirable  for  your 
sake  that  we  should  ; but  you  are  a brave  and 
honest  man,  and  will  stand  by  your  word,  and 
serve  me  as  you  promised — say  you  will,  for 
there  is  no  man  I could  trust  but  you.”  She 
stretched  her  hand  to  me,  and  it  was  clasped  in 
mine : had  she  commanded  me  to  finish  Sally 
K 


Joyce,  Esthers,  and  the  entire  family,  my  once 
own  Rosanna  included,  I could  not  have  refused 
at  that  moment.  Let  no  man  boast  of  his 
strength  till  he  has  been  fairly  in  the  net ; 
strong  and  wise  men  of  old,  Samson  and  Solo- 
mon, were  overcome  by  woman’s  wiles,  and  I 
am  mistaken  if  the  best  or  worst  of  their  Deli- 
lahs  would  have  been  a match  for  Madame  Pa- 
livez.  I know  not  in  what  words  I pledged 
myself  over  and  over  again  to  her  service  and 
commands ; but  as  I spoke  the  woman’s  look 
grew  sad  and  softened,  I felt  her  hand  sliding 
away  from  mine,  and  dared  not  retain  it ; she 
was  queen  and  empress  over  me  to  the  last; 
and  then,  as  if  determined  to  change  the  sub- 
ject, said,  “Lucien,  don’t  mind  that  Baltic 
merchant  of  yours ; if  he  come  again,  hear  what 
he  has  been  bidden  to  say.  I will  take  meas- 
ures with  Esthers  for  so  buzzing  up  his  silly 
highness ; if  he  were  not  a connection  of  my 
mother,  I should  take  no  trouble  wdth  the  man. 
You  have  never  heard  me  speak  of  her  before; 
she  died  long  ago,  in  the  year  they  sent  me  to 
be  educated  in  that  Greek  convent  beside  the 
Euxine;  but  I remember  her  well,  and  have  her 
portrait  among  the  ladies  of  our  house — they 
were  always  taken  in  miniature ; the  men  are 
at  full  length  yonder  on  the  walls  of  the  bank, 
but  no  woman  of  the  family  was  ever  so  paint- 
ed, except  the  Kazan  princess  whom  you  have 
seen  and  must  remember.  My  mother  was  not 
like  her,  but  a fine  Greek  face,  not  so  beautiful 
as  regular,  which  became  her  character,  for  she 
was  a respectable  Greek  lady  of  the  old  school, 
w'hose  domestic  manners  had  survived  the  vicis- 
situdes of  creed  and  empire,  and  undergone 
little  alteration  from  the  days  of  Penelope  to 
my  mother’s  youth.  Like  the  Queen  of  Ithaca, 
she  spun  with  a distaff,  wove  on  the  hand-loom, 
embroidered  skillfully  with  her  needle,  superin- 
tended all  her  household  affairs,  was  not  to  be  seen 
by  strangers,  went  out  only  on  church  festivals 
or  visits  of  ceremony,  and  always  deeply  veiled, 
as  matrons  of  rank  and  propriety  were  among 
the  ancient  Greeks,  and  still  are  in  the  northern 
colonies.  I w ill  show  you  her  picture,  Lucien, 
and,,  notwithstanding  the  classic  regularity  of 
features,  which  makes  some  difference,  do  you 
know  whom  she  resembles  ? The  lady  from 
whom  I was  sorry  to  be  your  cause  of  parting 
yesterday  evening ; tell  me,  why  did  you  leave 
her  so  abruptly  ?” 

“ We  had  only  met  by  accident,  Madame,, 
and  Miss  Forbes  was  going  home.” 

“ She  seemed  in  no  haste  about  it,  Lucien, 
and  neither  did  you,  till  I came  forward.  You 
were  talking  in  the  most  friendly  and  confidential 
manner ; so  you  should,  my  friend,  and  I was 
glad  to  see  it.  Do  you  know  that  I made  a dis- 
covery that  hour  on  the  Bayswater  road,  one 
wdiich  you  should  never  hear  of  if  I did  not 
think  you  wiser  and  better  than  common  men  ; 
Lucien,  that  virtuous,  pious,  gentle  woman  loves 
you  with  all  the  strength  and  truth  of  her  pure 
and  constant  nature.  There  is  a treasure  come  to 
your  hand,  ay,  and  to  your  heart,  if  you  have 


146 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


wisdom  and  worth  enough  t.o  value  it,  which 
great  and  good  men  have  not  been  blessed  with. 
‘ He  that  a good  woman  loves  is  fenced  against 
all  evil,’  says  the  Tuscan  proverb.  Helen  Forbes 
is  a good  woman,  if  there  be  one  on  this  side  of 
the  blue.  She  is  her  father’s  heiress,  but  we 
will  not  speak  of  that ; I know  you  are  not  the 
man  to  be  bribed  or  bought  in  marriage.  But 
her  tender  and  true  affection  will  complete  for 
you  the  golden  round  of  life,  broken  and  frag- 
mentary to  so  many.  Your  domestic  comfort, 
your  worldly  credit,  your  family  affairs,  will  be 
safe  in  her  keeping;  and,  more  than  all,  she 
loves  you,  Lucien ; the  man  is  worse  than  fool 
with  whom  that  counts  for  little.” 

“Madame,”  said  I,  the  whole  man  within 
me  rising  against  being  so  made  over  and  dis- 
posed of,  “I  know  Miss  Forbes  deserves  all  the 
praise  you  give  her,  but,  were  she  ten  times  as 
good  and  as  worthy,  I can  not  love  her,  having 
loved  another.  What  I ventured  to  tell  you  at 
our  last  meeting  was  true,  whatever  you  may 
please  to  reckon  it ; I spoke  in  haste,  and  sore 
pressed  by  the  feelings  of  the  hour.  If  it  were 
displeasing  to  you,  as  I suppose,  forgive  me  for 
the  sake  of  the  circumstances,  but  I can  not 
forget  that  it  was  uttered,  and  that  it  was  true.” 
“No,  Lucien,  it  was  not,  it  could  not  be,” 
and  she  wrung  her  hands  with  a look  of  hope- 
less misery  ; “ there  are  twenty  years  between 
us,  my  friend ; I knew  the  mysteries  of  life  be- 
fore you  w.  ~e  born.  Yes,  it  is  true,  I look 
younger  tha  . my  years ; and  there  are  barriers 
far  more  impassable  than  the  disparity  of  age.” 
“ Our  different  positions?”  said  I. 

“No,  these  are  outward  chances  which  my 
choice  could  step  over  — would  have  stepped, 
perhaps,  whatever  the  world  might  count  it.” 
It  was  a vague,  foolish  hope  waking  up  in  my 
heart  that  made  me  clasp  her  hand  between  my 
own,  which  were  trembling  like  aspen  leaves. 
“Yes,  Lucien”  — she  was  calm  and  collected 
now,  and  the  words  came  soft  and  slowly  — 
“there  is  something  in  my  own  mind,  some- 
thing in  yours,  something  in  the  fate  or  chance 
which  brought  us  to  be  acquainted,  which  tells 
me  we  were  not  born  strangers.  Maybe  it  was  in 
the  former  life  that  we  knew  each  other.  Yes, 
my  friend,  there  was  an  existence  before  this  for 
some  of  us ; don’t  you  dream  at  times  of  places 
and  things  you  never  saw  ? There  may  be  many 
lives  with  the  Lethe  between  them ; perhaps  it 
is  in  one  to  come  that  we  are  to  meet  again ; I 
know  there  are  such  predestinations ; but  on 
this  side  of  the  church-yard  clay,  Lucien,  there 
can  be  nothing  but  friendship  between  you  and 
I.  Don’t  look  so  vexed;  no  life  can  have  in 
it  any  thing  nobler  or  more  wrnrthy  of  the  soul 
than  friendship  ; it  survives  all  chances,  it  out- 
lasts all  changes.  I am  speaking  of  the  true, 
immortal  sort,  and  if  that  link  of  eternity  be 
between  us,  we  will  come  together  in  spite  of 
time  and  space.  I can  not  prove,  but  I believe 
it,  and  I believe  in  you  now  as  I never  did  be- 
fore. Don’t  ask  me  why ; the  truths  that  most 
concern  us  are  revealed  by  flashes ; I know  now 


you  are  the  one  friend  my  weakness  or  my  faith 
has  sought  for  among  all  that  ever  passed  me 
on  life’s  highway  — what  a weary,  dusty,  ob- 
structed one  it  is — the  friend  that  will  open  the 
gates  of  death  for  me,  and  send  my  soul  free 
and  unburdened  to  the  heritage  that  has  no 
mortgage  to  the  powers  of  darkness  and  evil  on 
it.” 

“ Kill  you!”  said  I,  starting  up,  and  my  own 
voice  sounded  strange  and  hollow.  “ Madame, 
whatever  you  may  say,  whatever  you  may  make 
me  promise,  I will  never  do  that.” 

“You  will,  Lucien,  my  first,  my  only  friend  ; 
you  will  do  more  for  me  than  Virginius  did  for 
his  daughter,  for  I have  a greater  evil  to  es- 
cape from,  and  no  blame  of  the  foolish  world 
will  fall  on  you,  no  danger  from  its  laws.” 
She  held  out  her  hand  to  me,  but  I could  not 
take  it,  though  never  had  she  looked  more  kind 
and  tender. 

“ What  do  you  mean,  Madame  ? For  God’s 
sake,  tell  me  what  put  such  a thought  in  your 
mind !” 

‘ ‘ A fact  in  my  family  history  with  which  you 
are  not  acquainted,  Lucien  ; sit  down  and  listen 
to  me  ; you  are  the  first  man,  not  a Palivez,  to 
whom  it  was  ever  told,  and  I know  you  will 
keep  your  promise.” 

I sat  down  mechanically,  but  not  now  so  close 
by  her  side,  and  she  proceeded  with  the  firm 
look  and  tone  of  one  who  had  wound  herself  up 
to  the  task,  ^nd  would  fulfill  it. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  PALIVEZI,  AND  THEIR 
DOOM. 

“My  family  was  reckoned  old  and  illustrious 
among  the  Greeks  settled  in  Southern  Russia, 
that  corner  of  ancient  Scythia  to  which  Greece 
sent  out  her  earliest  colonies,  the  meeting-place 
of  Europe’s  old  civilization  and  most  ancient 
barbarism,  where  the  creeds  and  customs  of 
East  and  West  still  flourish  side  by  -side,  and 
their  races  have  dwelt  for  ages  without  min- 
gling. We  were  not  sprung  from  the  early 
colonists,  but  of  the  Attic  stock;  archons  of 
Athens  were  among  our  ancestors  ; but,  like 
many  of  the  Greek  patricians,  we  removed  to 
Byzantium  when  Constantine  the  Great  made 
it  his  capital  and  founded  the  Eastern  empire. 
Ages  after,  when  the  Ottoman  Turks  were  be- 
coming known  on  the  Greek  frontiers,  and  the 
Russi  of  the  North  were  catching  the  lights  of 
civilization  and  Christianity  from  Constanti- 
nople, a dispute  with  the  Patriarch,  which  began 
about  church  dues,  and  ended  in  an  accusation 
of  worshiping  Jupiter,  made  us  emigrate  first  to 
the  flourishing  city  of  Novgorod,  and  afterward 
to  Kief,  still  the  holy  place  of  the  North,  and 
then  chosen  by  Saint  Vladimir  as  the  capital  of 
his  new-christened  kingdom.  From  that  period 
the  Palivezi  lived  and  traded  among  the  Greeks 
of  Russia.  Always  of  patrician  rajik  and  good 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


147 


estate,  they  had  become  merchants  and  bankers 
as  early  as  the  Roman  times ; the  Greek  nobil- 
ity gave  example  in  this  respect  to  those  of 
Venice  and  other  Italian  cities.  They  carried 
their  business  with  them  to  the  North  ; Novgo- 
rod and  Kief  were  the  emporiums  of  European 
and  Asiatic  commerce ; from  the  tenth  to  the 
fifteenth  century,  the  Greeks  monopolized  its 
higher  and  more  profitable  branches,  and  the 
Palivezi  were  the  most  successful  house  among 
them.  In  spite  of  intestine  wars  and  Tartar 
invasions,  which  often  passed  over  the  land  in 
those  five  hundred  years,  their  mercantile  pru- 
dence, enterprise,  and  honor — which,  by  the  way, 
were  equally  proverbial — enabled  them  to  gather 
and  keep  riches  which  no  other  firm  in  the  North 
could  boast.  It  was  their  wisdom,  and  it  proved 
their  strength.  Lucien,  whatever  philosophers 
may  $a}7',  wealth  is  worth  striving  for ; it  is  the 
one  power  which  commands  all  material  things, 
and,  to  some  extent,  the  minds  of  men  ; yet  it 
may  be  overprized  and  overpaid,  as  happened 
in  our  house. 

“ The  Palivezi  had  acquired  very  great  influ- 
ence and  authority  on  the  banks  of  the  Borys- 
thenes  through  their  credit  in  foreign  lands  and 
the  capital  they  could  command  at  home.  They 
had  made  the  northern  princes  their  humble 
servants  through  loans  and  subsidies  ; they  had 
raised  troops  to  defend  the  cities  where  they 
dwelt  against  the  Tartar;  some  of  them  had 
commanded  their  armed  companies  and  done 
the  invader  no  small  damage.  When  at  length 
the  northern  torrent  overwhelmed  the  land,  they 
bribed  barbarian  prejudices,  bought  over  favor- 
ites, and  thus  obtained  good  terms  from  the 
Tartar  chiefs,  with  whom  they  treated  on  their 
own  account  as  independent  powers.  - They  had 
similar  dealings,  warlike  and  pacific,  with  the 
Poles  and  the  Teutonic  knights ; in  short,  with 
all  the  conquerors  and  troublers  of  those  times. 
But  Russia  struggled  back  into  national  life. 
Vasilrewitsch  shook  off  the  Tartar  domination, 
and  built  the  Kremlin  at  Moscow ; the  Cross 
was  established  in  the  North,  and  the  Crescent 
waned  before  it  step  by  step,  and  year  by  year, 
till  in  the  days  of  Ivan,  called  by  his  own  sub- 
jects the  Terrible,  and  known  in  England  as  the 
Muscovite  Czar  who  sent  embassadors  to  Queen 
Elizabeth,  and  allowed  her  subjects  to  form  a 
trading  company  at  Archangel,  the  kingdoms  of 
Crimea  and  Kazan,  to  which  his  ancestors  had 
paid  tribute,  were  conquered  and  reduced  to 
Russian  rule,  the  whole  South  and  East,  as  far 
as  the  frontier^  of  Poland  and  the  Euxine  Sea, 
became  his  dominions,  and  the  Palivezi  had 
to  deal  with  an  absolute  and  Christian  Czar. 
They  lent  him  money,  as  they  had  done  to  his 
predecessors ; they  bought  over  his  ministers 
and  favorites — for  the  terrible  Ivan  had  some 
such — but  Christian  Russians  were  more  ex- 
pensive to  bribe  and  buy  than  Mohammedan 
Tartars.  The  conquering  Czar  could  not  be 
so  well  secured  by  loans  as  his  tribute-paying 
ancestors  had  been ; it  was  requisite  to  please 
and  serve  him  too,  if  they  would  live  and  trade 


within  his  bounds,  and  about  this  time  Ivan  re- 
quired a piece  of  special  service.  He  had  con- 
quered the  kingdom  of  Kazan  ; internal  feuds, 
and  the  chances  of  war  and  time,  had  extermi- 
nated its  royal  house  all  to  one  old  man,  trem- 
bling on  the  verge  of  the  grave,  and  his  daugh- 
ter, the  last  but  undoubted  heiress  of  the  Tartar 
line.  It  was  true  that  women  counted  for  little 
among  the  Eastern  and  Moslem  races,  but  the 
blood  of  Zingus  was  in  her  veins ; the  Tartar 
chief  who  happened  to  marry  her  might  claim 
the  sovereignty  of  Kazan  in  her  right,  and  Ivan 
was  determined  to  secure  it  to  his  posterity. 
The  antipathies  of  race  and  religion  were  stron- 
ger in  those  days  than  they  are  now  among  the 
Russians.  The  absolute  Czar,  though  he  might 
sat  up  wheels  and  gibbets  for  them,  could  not 
ask  one  of  his  Muscovite  nobles  to  marry  the 
Tartar  princess  with  any  amount  of  dowry  ; but 
the  head  of  the  Greek  banking-house  had  an 
only  son  and  heir  yet  undisposed  of  in  marriage, 
and  Ivan  fixed  on  him  as  a safe  husband  for  the 
dangerous  heiress.  Refusal  involved  a flight 
from  Russia,  without  time  to  arrange  business 
or  gather  in  debts  and  securities,  and  the  con- 
fiscation of  all  that  could  not  be  speedily  carried 
off  was  certain.  Compliance  secured  the  mon- 
opoly of  Eastern  commerce,  which  was  now 
ebbing  fast  away  from  Novgorod  and  Kief,  hav- 
ing found  new  channels  in  the  Levant  and  the 
Adriatic.  The  Palivezi  might  engross  all  that 
remained — might  retain  their  wealth  and  influ-, 
ence,  if  not  rise  to  greater,  by  obeying  the  Czar’s 
behest ; and  as  there  was  no  alternative  but 
ruin,  these  considerations  prevailed.  The  Greek 
line,  which  had  kept  its  pure  Hellenic  descent 
unbroken  and  unmingled  with  any  foreign 
strain  from  the  days  of  Athenian  liberty,  was 
linked  to  the  Scythian  hordes,  and  Eusebius 
Palivez  married  the  last  descendant  of  Zingus 
Khan.  You  see  her  picture  hanging  in  mjr 
private  rooms,  beside  the  veiled  Nemesis,  a true 
Tartar  face  in  its  ugliness,  in  its  strength,  and  in 
the  power  of  the  curse  with  which  she  smote  my 
family.  Now,  Lucien,  I am  about  to  tell  you 
one  of  those  traditions  which  dignified  historians 
ignore  and  sensible  biographers  reason  away, 
but  which  are  nevertheless  the  truest  part  of 
national  or  family  history.  Yermiska  — that 
was  the  Tartar  name  of  the  princess,  though 
they  baptized  her  Helena  in  the  newly-erected 
church  dedicated  to  that  saint  in  Kazan — had 
formed  an  early  attachment  to  a Calmuck  chief, 
who  had  fought  gallantly  for  his  share  of  the 
Crimeayretired  with  his  tribe  before  the  advanc- 
ing Russians  far  eastward,  and  was  said  to  have 
ultimately  settled  on  the  frontiers  of  China. 
His  descent  was  held  inferior  to  her  own ; I be- 
lieve the  tribe  were  not  orthodox  Mohamme- 
dans either;  but  there  was  avow  between  them, 
and  Yermiska  would  fain  have  retired  eastward 
too.  But  the  old  chief,  her  father,  would  not 
leave  the  soil  of  Kazan  and  the  stone  coffins  of 
his  ancestors.  For  the  sake  of  remaining  there, 
he  consented  to  her  marriage  with  the  Christian 
trader ; the  conquering  Czar  commanded  it , 


148 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


the  Palivezi,  father  and  son — though  solemnly- 
warned  of  the  bride’s  aversion  by  her  old  confi- 
dential nurse,  secretly  sent  to  their  house  under 
shade  of  night — held  on  to  the  wedding  which 
promised  such  advantages. 

“Yermiska  was  a Tartar  Moslema,  accus- 
tomed to  think  of  revenge,  but  never  of  revolt 
or  disobedience  ; and  the  night  before  her  mar- 
triage  she  deliberately  drank  a potion,  prepared 
for  her  by  a Calmuck  sorceress,  famous  through- 
out the  north,  and  known  to  journey  as  far  as 
Kamtschatka  in  her  search  for  plants  of  power. 
How,  or  of  what  that  draught  was  compounded, 
the  Powers  of  Darkness  best  know;  but  the 
princess  declared,  and  time  has  proved  her  state- 
ment true,  that  it  would  transmit  hereditary  and 
irremediable  madness  to  the  utmost  generation 
of  her  descendants. 

“ You  look  incredulous,  my  friend.  There 
are  secrets  in  nature  for  which  the  boasted  sci- 
ence of  Europe  has  neither  name  nor  place. 
Among  the  rank-growing  weeds  of  her  fens  and 
marshes,  among  the  wind-sown  flowers  of  her 
woods  and  wilds,  there  are  plants  that  draw  oc- 
cult influences  down  from  the  midnight  moon, 
or  up  from  the  nether  kingdom,  to  mingle  with 
their  juices,  and  furnish  the  skillful  searcher 
with  weapons  against  life  and  death,  never  yet 
matched  by  your  chemists  and  anatomists. 
They  were  known  three  thousand  years  ago  to 
necromancers,  who  sought  them  out  on  the  plains 
of  Thessaly  and  the  vales  of  Etruria.  Through 
them  they  changed  men’s  natures  and  turned 
the  course  of  their  affections ; the  love  philtres 
were  not  all  fancies,  neither  were  the  tales  of 
Caligula  and  Domitian.  From  them  the  Egyp- 
tian embalmers  drew  the  gums  which  fenced 
their  dead  against  decay,  while  it  fell  on  suc- 
cessive creeds  and  dynasties.  That  knowledge, 
like  all  the  deeper  and  higher  sorts,  has  no 
written  records.  It  can  not  be  found  in  books ; 
they  contain  but  the  husks  and  rinds  of  learn- 
ing, being  meant  for  the  common  eye  and  mind. 
It  exists,  nevertheless,  among  primitive  and  un- 
lettered races ; the  African  slave  and  the  Hin- 
doo pariah  have  visited  the  sins  of  the  fathers 
upon  Anglo-Saxon  families  by  means  similar 
to  those  which  the  unwilling  bride  employed 
against  mine.  Strange  that  such  mysterious 
drugs  should  be  far  less  powerful  to  save  than 
to  destroy ; as  it  is  thought  because  the  plants 
that  bear  them  grow  so  near  the  dead,  for  the 
graves  of  earth’s  first  inhabitants  are  in  her 
wastes  and  wilds.  You  can  not  believe  it ; the 
subject  is  too  new  to  you ; we  will  talk  of  it 
hereafter,  if  there  be  time  ; but  the  night  wears, 
and  I must  proceed  with  my  weary  tale. 

“ Eusebius  Palivez,  one  of  the  handsomest 
men  of  his  time,  and  one  of  the  wealthiest  in 
Kussia,  though  never  able  to  supersede  the  Cal- 
muck chief,  espoused  his  Tartar  bride,  with  a 
pomp  which  astonished  all  Kazan,  in  the  church 
where  she  had  been  baptized  on  the  previous 
day,  brought  her  home  to  his  house  in  Kief  with 
splendor  and  festivity  befitting  a wealthy  Greek 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  was  henceforth  es- 


tablished in  the  favor  of  the  terrible  Czar,  and 
in  the  monopoly  of  Eastern  trade  and  banking. 
The  Princess  Helena,  as  people  continued  to 
call  her,  behaved  like  a dutiful  and  prudent  wife 
— though  she  insisted  on  having  her  tirema,  or 
harem  apartments,  kept  strictly  separate  from 
the  public  rooms  — wore  a thicker  veil  than 
Greek  ladies  were  accustomed  to,  and  never 
went  to  church  if  she  could  help  it.  There  was 
great  peace,  if  nothing  better,  between  her  and 
her  husband  for  full  thirty  years.  They  had 
three  sons  and  two  daughters ; the  house  of 
Palivez  had  increased  in  riches  as  well  as  in 
numbers,  when  the  great  plague,  which  devas- 
tated Eastern  Europe  at  the  end  of  the  six- 
teenth century,  found  its  way  to  Kief,  entered 
their  walls  in  spite  of  wealth  and  care,  and  first 
lighted  on  the  Princess  Helena.  The  Tartar 
woman  was  dying,  and  she  knew  it.  In  the 
middle  of  the  third  night,  a band  of  Greek  monks 
stood  round  her  bed ; they  had  come  to  admin- 
ister the  last  sacraments,  and  see  the  soul  won 
from  Mohammed  safe  on  its  last  journey ; her 
husband  and  children  stood  at  the  chamber  door 
— they  could  venture  no  nearer  the  pestilence, 
though  the  black  cross  marked  the  door,  and 
none  might  pass  out  or  in.  But  the  daughter 
of  Zingus  raised  herself  with  a final  effort,  look- 
ed Eusebius  Palivez  in  the  face,  and  told  him, 
in  a tone  which  all  the  house  could  hear,  what 
she  had  done  for  him  and  his  posterity  the  night 
before  her  marriage,  prayed  that  the  Prophet,  in 
whom  her  fathers  trusted,  might  hold  the  curse 
over  them  to  their  latest  generation,  struck  the 
Eucharist  out  of  the  hand  of  a horrified  monk, 
and,  with  a shout  of  fierce  laughter,  fell  back 
and  died. 

“Eusebius  Palivez  lived  to  see  his  hundred 
and  fifth  birthday.  He  also  lived  to  see  the 
fearful  intelligence  of  that  midnight  prove  true  ; 
his  eldest  son,  about  the  age  of  fifty,  fell,  as  all 
the  Palivez  have,  or  would  have  fallen,  into 
strange  and  helpless  insanity.  Up  to  that  time 
he  had  been  a man  of  clear  intellect,  sober, 
honest  habits,  and  more  than  common  under- 
standing. There  was  no  cause  of  accident  or 
disease  the  doctors  could  discover  for  his  mad- 
ness. It  began  with  an  unaccountable  loss  of 
memory ; Lucien,  I hold  that  faculty  to  be  the 
hinge  on  which  both  life  and  mind  turn.  Well, 
it  went  from  him,  as  it  were,  piecemeal,  for 
about  six  months,  and  then  furious,  raging  fren- 
zy was  suddenly  developed.  I have  heard  that 
he  killed  three  keepers  within  the  first  year ; 
and  the  part  of  the  house  where  they  kept  him 
had  to  be  walled  up,  to  prevent  his  getting  out 
and  destroying  the  entire  family.  After  about 
seven  years  of  that  frantic  state,  he  gradually 
sank  into  imbecility,  so  groveling  and  degraded 
that  the  details  could  only  produce  disgust. 

“I  have  heard  them  all,  for  this  was  the  first 
case  and  example  of  our  family  misfortune  ; 
henceforth  it  was  the  sure  inheritance  of  every 
succeeding  Palivez,  man  or  woman — somewhat 
modified  in  the  latter,  but  the  same  in  char- 
acter and  duration ; for  both  there  was  no  re- 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


149 


covery  — no  interval ; and  it  always  came  on 
at  middle  age,  sooner  or  later,  according  to 
constitution,  but  never  deferred  beyond  the  fif- 
tieth year.  You  will  say  it  was  hereditary  in 
the  princess’s  Tartar  family,  derived,  as  it  was, 
from  barbarous  warriors,  whose  lives  had  been 
full  of  wild  excitement,  and  probably  wilder  ex- 
cess. That  would  be  a probable  and  sensible 
explanation,  but  I believe  in  the  account  handed 
down  to  us  from  Eusebius,  her  unlucky  husband, 
and  my  unlucky  ancestor.  He  left  a doom  hang- 
ing over  every  Palivez  which  prudence  could  not 
ward  off  nor  wealth  bribe  away,  coming  nearer 
to  them  year  by  year,  as  they  grew  out  of  youth 
into  the  business  and  importance  of  rich  and 
wise  men  of  the  world ; but  there  was  brave 
blood  among  them.  That  wild,  fierce  stream 
from  the  Scythian  deserts  had  met  and  mingled 
with  that  which  dyed  the  sea  at  Salamis,  and 
made  it  famous  to  all  time.  The  Palivez  had 
not  the  wisdom  to  foil  the  Fates  by  letting  the 
doomed  race  die  out,  and  others  take  their  place 
among  the  world’s  gainers  and  gatherers  ; but 
they  had  the  courage,  man  after  man,  to  follow 
the  precept  and  example  of  the  Tartar  woman’s 
youngest  son.  His  name  was  Eusebius  too — 
a notable  name  in  our  family  ; it  was  given  to 
the  first  that  turned  Christian,  but  the  priest 
strongly  suspected  this  Eusebius  of  paganism  ; 
some  of  us  were  always  relapsing  that  way,  you 
perceive.  He  saw  there  was  but  one  escape  for 
our  family  honor — one  mode  of  concealing  our 
misfortune  from  the  knowledge  of  the  vulgar — 
and  of  what  misfortune  will  they  not  take  ad- 
vantage in  one  form  or  other  ? Ours  was  griev- 
ous beyond  the  common,  and  would  bring  more 
than  common  scorn  and  shame.  Lucien,  if 
you  are  not  well  enough  acquainted  with  the 
world  to  know  that  that  is  all  our  ill  luck,  how- 
ever unmerited,  brings  us  from  the  common 
herd — and  what  else  are  mankind  ? — you  may 
come  to  learn  it  in  time.  Were  the  heads  of 
our  high-born  and  stainless  house  to  become 
proverbial  as  foredoomed  madmen?  were  our 
stately  mansions,  to  which  cities  looked  for  the 
tokens  of  their  prosperity,  and  princes  came  as 
humble  negotiators,  to  contain  walled-up  prisons 
for  raving  frenzy,  or  imbecility  sunk  far  below 
the  level  of  Nebuchadnezzar’s  punishment  ? 
were  useless  and  wretched  lives  to  wear  and 
suffer  on  with  no  result  but  the  impediment  of 
business,  and  the  dishonor  of  our  house  and 
name  ? Eusebius  found  a wiser  course,  and  all 
his  descendants  have  followed  it,  from  one  gen- 
eration to  another.  The  inscrdfable  doom  was 
made  known,  at  fitting  time  and  to  the  proper 
person — that  is  to  say,  to  the  nearest  heir  and 
evident  successor;  the  duty  was  bound  upon 
them,  and  accepted,  without  one  cowardly  de- 
faulter, as  the  time  approached  and  the  symp- 
toms became  manifest,  to  remove  beyond  the 
bounds  of  suffering  and  insanity  the  man  whose 
days  of  usefulness  and  reason  were  numbered. 
Heir  after  heir  fulfilled  that  duty  to  his  prede- 
cessor by  a sure  and  rapid  poison,  compounded 
for  us  by  one  of  the  same  Tartar  race  to  whom 


its  necessity  was  owing.  Some  had  courage  and 
judgment  enough  to  act  for  themselves,  some 
died  before  the  time  of  the  visitation.  The 
daughters  of  our  house  were  generally  sent  to 
convents  ; the  few  that  were  married  in  Russia 
brought  only  suspicion  on  the  family  through 
their  misfortune ; its  cause  and  consequence 
wete  never  revealed  to  them.  Being  Greeks, 
and  men  of  Eastern  business,  the  Palivezi  held 
women  incapable  of  keeping  such  a secret — for 
a secret  it  was  kept  within  our  walls  and  breasts, 
at  farthest  known  only  to  some  ancient  and 
trusty  servant  like  my  old  Marco,  some  aged 
confessor,  or  discreet  abbess.  To  make  its  keep- 
ing safer,  and  also  to  keep  the  wealth  it  had 
gathered  from  the  needy  hands  of  Ivan’s  suc- 
cessors, our  house  removed  to  Amsterdam.  The 
rapidly-rising  commerce  of  that  city,  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  seventeenth  century,  made  it  an 
eligible  position  for  Eastern  bankers  ; and  in  the 
grasping,  feverish  haste  of  trade,  there  are  covert 
and  shelter  for  all  who  have  matters  to  conceal. 
People  have  less  time  or  interest  to  waste  in 
observation  of  their  neighbors’  lives  and  doings. 
In  Amsterdam  we  remained,  and  flourished,  and 
left  our  dead — a Greek  house  of  great  business, 
great  repute,  and  singularly-secluded  habits,  for 
nearly  a hundred  years.  Then  the  flush  of 
Dutch  commerce  passed  away,  leaving  the  coun- 
try more  quiet  and  leisure  for  gossip  and  remark. 
We  had  formed  English  connections  ; the  reign- 
ing head  of  our  house  thought  it  expedient  to 
become  a stranger  once  more ; there  was  no 
Greek  firm  in  Dublin,  and  we  had  reason  to  ex- 
pect special  favor  at  the  viceregal  court.  To 
Dublin  we  and  our  bank  removed  accordingly  ; 
it  was  in  my  great-grandfather’s  time.  There 
the  one  Palivezi  succeeded  the  other,  and  did 
the  ancient  office  of  heir  and  successor,  which 
has  been  transmitted  through  ten  generations, 
till  the  line  has  come  to  its  end  in  me.  My 
father  did  that  duty  to  his  elder  brother  Alexis, 
and  I did  the  same  for  him  eighteen  years  ago. 
You  start,  my  friend ; but  I lived  in  the  ex- 
pectation of  it  for  years  before,  and  have  lived 
in  its  memory  ever  since.  None  but  my  old 
servants  and  you  know  the  fact;  you  watched 
with  me  through  the  last  anniversary  night;  you 
are  the  only  friend  I ever  had,  or  could  have, 
since  then ; and  you  will  do  the  same  office  for 
me.  Perhaps  you  will  despise  me.  I have 
despised  myself  many  a time  for  the  weakness 
which  makes  me  shrink  from  doing  on  my  own 
behalf  that  which  I did  for  my  dear  and  loving 
father.  I have  reasoned,  striven,  and  sneered 
against  it,  but  all  in  vain.  The  shrinking  and 
the  horror  remain  with  me  ; yet  do  me  justice, 
Lucien,  it  is  not  want  of  courage  to  open  the 
gate  of  death  with  my  own  hand,  and  walk  into 
its  outer  darkness.  But  I mistrust  my  own 
firmness  of  nerve,  my  own  clearness  of  judg- 
ment, when  the  time  arrives.  Perhaps  it  is 
weak  not  to  anticipate  its  coming,  and  be  be- 
forehand with  it ; but,  like  all  doomed  people,  I 
value  the  days  of  respite,  and  am  not  willing  to 
part  with  one  of  them.  If  life  had  been  less 


150 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


full  of  health  and  vigor,  I might. have  been  more 
willing  to  cut  it  short.  Yet,  once  more,  do  not 
mistake  me ; with  such  a doom  hanging  over  it, 
I am  willing  to  rise  and  go  when  the  time  ap- 
proaches. That  must  be  soon,  and  I well  know 
it ; but  you,  my  friend — you,  whom  the  very 
Fates  brought  to  me  in  spite  of  strangership 
and  distrust;  you,  who  saved  my  life  when  it 
was  worth  saving ; who  have  heard  my  secret 
thoughts  ; who  have  reasoned  with  and  against 
me,  and  learned  from  my  lips  the  tale  never  be- 
fore heard  but  by  a Palivez — you  will  not  allow 
me  to  fall  into  that  horrible  ruin,  but  do  me  the 
greatest  and  the  only  service  that  man  can  do. 
It  was  my  father’s  prophecy  that  I,  the  last  of 
the  house,  would  find  a friendly  hand  to  requite 
my  obedience  to  his  last  wishes.  Oh  ! Lucien, 
but  that  was  hard,  not  to  do,  but  to  think  of, 
whefi  he  first  told  me.  I was  young  then,  and 
had  come  home  from  the  Greek  convent,  where 
I was  educated.  The  daughters  of  our  family 
had  been  educated  and  received  as  nuns  there 
from  the  days  of  Ivan.  Our  ancestor  Eusebius, 
the  same  who  married  to  please  the  Czar,  had 
liberally  endowed  it  for  that  purpose,  and  in  my 
time  the  abbess  was  one  of  the  Comneni  of 
Trebizond,  and  one  of  the  best  scholars  in  the 
North.  To  her  I owe  my  Greek  and  Latin, 
perhaps  my  free  thinking  too,  for  she  was  strong 
and  free  of  thought,  though  an  abbess.  She 
knew  our  family  secret,  and  in  a manner  pre- 
pared me  for  it ; not  the  whole,  remember,  that 
was  not  confided  even  to  our  trusty  friends  in  the 
convents.  They  knew  who  had  been  inmates 
of  their  back  and  out-of-the-way  rooms  from  one 
generation  to  another ; they  knew  that  none 
of  the  rich  banking  Palivezi  lived  to  old  age, 
but  they  knew  no  more.  Well,  the  abbess  had 
taught  me  to  think ; maybe  I had  a natural  turn 
for  that  uncommon  process.  There  was  a 
grand-aunt  of  mine  living,  if  I can  call  it  so,  in 
one  of  the  back  cloisters,  and  a vault  for  the 
ladies  of  our  family  under  the  chapel.  My 
father  told. me  the  rest  when  I came  home.  He 
had  loved  me  well,  Lucien.  I was  the  only 
child  he  ever  had,  the  heiress  of  his  wealth  and 
his  misfortune.  There  was  something  in  our 
characters,  too,  which  drew  us  closer  to  each 
other,  in  spite  of  the  difference  of  sex  and  years, 
in  spite  of  our  different  bents  of  mind,  for  he 
was  a firm  believer  in  the  Christian  faith,  and  I 
have  no  worship  except  for  the  ancient  gods  of 
my  race.  You  look  astonished,  my  friend  ; is  it 
so  wonderful  that  the  faith  of  ages  and  nations, 
as  far  as  history  casts  back  her  lights,  believed 
in  the  bravest,  the  wisest,  the  most  famous 
times  of  the  world,  should  yet  remain  among 
mankind  ? I tell  you  the  Pagans  did  not  all 
die  out  with  Julian  the  philosopher,  whom  you 
call  the  Apostate,  or  with  those  latest  worship- 
ers of  Pan  in  remote  woodland  villages,  from 
whom  the  superseded  system  took  its  name. 
Patriarchs  of  the  Greek  Church,  and  cardinals 
of  Rome — wise  men  who  chanced  to  be  kings  or 
chiefs  in  Christendom,  scholars  and  poets,  in 
the  depths  of  their  unwritten  thoughts,  have 


recognized  in  the  ever-living,  ever-active  pow- 
ers of  Nature  the  only  possible  and  obvious  di- 
vinities. You  can  not  receive  the  doctrine  ? 
Well,  my  friend,  we  will  not  dispute  upon  it. 
I have  the  liberality  as  well  as  the  faith  of  my 
Athenian  ancestors,  who  erected  an  altar  to  the 
unknown  God ; but  to  return  to  my  father.  He 
loved  me  well,  and  he  trusted  mre  as  man  rarely 
does  or  can  trust  in  woman.  He  knew  my  mind 
was  not  of  the  inferior  order,  though  I had  the 
misfortune  to  be  born  a daughter  and  not  a son  ; 
and  when,  after  my  uncle’s  departure,  he  took 
to  prayers  and  penances,  that  was  his  mode  of 
reconciling  himself  with  our  terrible  necessity. 
All  the  Palivezi  who  were  Christians  had  taken 
the  same  method.  He  confided  his  business, 
his  mercantile  credit,  and,  of  course,  family  honor 
to  me,  and  bound  me  by  the  love  I bore,  and  the 
obedience  I owed  him,  to  see  that  the  misery 
and  degradation  of  madness  should  not  fall  on 
his  life.  I did  it,  Lucien,  and  you  will  do  the 
same  for  me.  It  was  the  service  I asked  and 
you  promised.  By  your  honor  as  an  Irish  gen- 
tleman, by  your  faith  as  a friend,  by  the  love 
which  I believe  you  bear  me,  and  which,  if  it 
prove  true  and  lasting,  will  bring  us  together 
under  happier  auspices  in  some  other  planet,  I 
charge  you  to  give  me  the  poison  within  an  hour 
after  you  first  perceive  that  my  intellects  are 
shaken;  It  is  the  surest,  safest,  only  way — and, 
Lucien,  you  will  do  it  ?” 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  me,  and  I clasped 
it  between  my  own.  It  was  cold  as  ice,  and  we 
sat  for  some  minutes  without  speaking. 

Her  tale  had  been  told  so  calmly,  so  clearly, 
that  there  was  no  question  for  me  to  ask,  no 
doubt  for  me  to  offer.  Strange  as  it  was,  I felt 
that  it  was  a true  though  terrible  explanation 
of  all  that  had  puzzled  and  perplexed  me  con- 
cerning her,  and  I think  that  while  we  sat  there 
with  clasped  hands  I learned  something  of  what 
people  mean  by  a broken  heart.  Mine  did  not 
break,  I suppose.  I have  lived  long  since  then 
— had  my  share  ol  human  cares,  hopes,  and  en- 
joyments ; but  there  are  times  of  shipwreck  and 
ruin  to  the  man  within,  which  after-time  may 
cover  with  new  soil  and  sow  with  other  harvests, 
as  corn  grows  over  battle-fields  and  garden  flow- 
ers on  graves ; yet  the  ruin  and  the  wreck  are 
there,  and  tokens  of  them  will  turn  up  at  times 
to  sight  and  memory.  I sat  there  bowed  down 
and  crushed  by  the  great  burden  her  strange 
misfortunes  had  laid  on  me.  Doubtless  it  was 
my  sin  or  my  infatuation — I have  thought  of  it 
over  and  over^ut  can  not  settle  which — that 
made  me  see  no  other  possible  course  than  to  do 
her  bidding,  and  repeat  my  promise  now  that 
the  required  service  was  set  clearly  before  me ; 
and  she  looked  me  in  the  face  with  those  earnest, 
hopeless,  yet  confiding  eyes  of  hers,  and  said, 
“Lucien,  you  will  do  it?  You  will  save  me; 
say  you  will,  and  set  my  mind  at  rest,  for  the 
time  is  short.  Let  me  know  that  I can  depend 
on  you,  and  pass  the  days  as  easily  as  I can.” 

“ Madame,  if  nothing  else  can  be  done  for 
you,  I will  do  it.” 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


151 


“If  nothing  else,  Lucien ! I will  not  have 
that  if.  I tell  you  there  is  nothing  possible. 
Would  all  my  forefathers  have  done  as  they  did 
for  brothers  and  for  parents  ? — the  Balivez  were 
an  attached  and  faithful  family,  never  one  of 
their  elders  tyrannical  or  stingy  to  the  young, 
nor  one  of  the  young  anxious  to  get  their  sen- 
iors’ places — w’ould  all  my  female  relations  in 
households  or  in  convents,  if  they  happened  to 
live  long  enough,  have  fallen  into  the  same  hor- 
ror ? Ay,  Lucien,  and  our  irregular  branches — 
the  Palivezi  had  not  many  of  them,  but  such 
things  will  occur;  witness  my  uncle’s  children 
by  the  Jewess — our  misfortune  had  descended 
to  them,  though  in  an  irregular  manner. 
Strange  that  the  same  thing  should  have  hap- 
pened to  similar  offshoots  in  all  our  genera- 
tions. Esthers’  elder  brother,  the  man  from 
whose  knife  you  saved  me,  has  been  shut  up 
and  under  keepers  for  the  last  fifteen  years.  I 
need  scarcely  tell  you  that  he  had  made  his  es- 
cape from  an  asylum  at  the  time,  and  was  re- 
stored to  it.  Esthers  himself  is  peculiar,  but  I 
think  will  not  lose  his  reason,  such  as  it  is ; and 
his  sister  Sally,  there  is  reason  for  believing — 
she  is  my  uncle’s  child  too — has  gone  into  the 
eclipse,  as  you  saw,  and  will  never  come  out 
of  it. 

“ Our  family  heritage  and  their  mother’s  in- 
temperance have  worked  strangely  on  them.  I 
don’t  know  which  influence  it  was  that  endowed 
them  one  and  all  with  such  a strong  inclination 
and  singular  power  to  penetrate  into  other  peo- 
ple’s concerns,  but  that  characterized  every  one 
of  them.  Poor  Reuben,  the  eldest  brother, 
guessed,  through  it,  or  through  his  own  share 
in  our  misfortune — these  things  cast  true  though 
distorted  lights  on  life  and  its  mysteries — that  I 
had  some  hand  in  shortening  somebody’s  days. 
That  was  all  that  could  be  made  out  from  his 
ravings.  Sally  heard  them,  for  she  could  not 
be  kept  from  visiting  him,  and  began  to  rave  in 
her  turn.  Now  you  know  all,  my  frjend ; you 
have  promised  to  serve  me,  and  I will  live  and 
die  your  debtor.”  She  clasped  my  hand.  Her 
fingers  were  growing  warm  again.  Her  look 
was  that  of  one  relieved,  and  positively  satisfied. 
I had  promised,  and,  may  it  be  forgiven  me,  de- 
termined to  keep  my  word,  with  an  additional 
resolution  to  take  share  of  the  sure  and  rapid 
poison,  for  well  I knew  that  living  afterward 
would  have  been  impossible.  I did  not  tell  her 
that,  but  she  sat  close  by  me — promised  to  put 
the  phial  into  my  hands : it  was  always  kept 
among  her  jewelry,  hermetically  sealed,  and  in 
a gold  case.  “ It  passes  for  a reliquary.  I am 
not  sure  they  don’t  think  we  have  a chip  of  the 
true  cross  in  it,”  she  said,  with  a scornful  smile. 
“Why  should  they  not?  it  is  the  chief  relic  in 
our  family,  and  has  been  of  more  genuine  serv- 
ice than  ever  holy  chip  or  bone  was,  even  to  the 
priests.”- 

She  told  me  other  particulars.  How  long  the 
poison  could  be  kept  strong  and  able  to  do  its 
work — half  a century  and  more.  Two  genera- 
tions of  the  Palavezi  had  been  served  from  the 


same  phial.  The  secret  of  its  manufacture  de- 
scended in  a line  of  Tartar  peasants  of  the  Cal- 
muck  race,  and  living  in  their  ancient  seats  on 
the  borders  of  the  Crimea.  The  present  repre- 
sentative had  replenished  her  reliquary  on  her 
last  visit  to  Russia.  There  was  no  danger  that 
the  mixture  was  not  strong  enough.  “ You  will 
take  charge  of  it,  and  see  me  every  day,  in  the 
bank  or  out  of  it,  no  matter  where.  My  look 
and  manner  will  tell  you  when  the  time  is  come. 
I think  I shall  be  able  to  tell  you  myself;  and, 
Lucien,  by  our  after-meeting,  be  true  to  me  in 
this  matter ; but  I know  your  honor — the  only 
genuine  article  of  the  kind  I ever  met  with  since 
my  father  left  me — you  will  be  faithful?”  I 
promised  once  more,  and  saw  the  summer  day- 
light creeping  in  upon  us. 

“The  morning  is  come,”  she  said — “how 
many  mornings  have  I yet  to  see?  Oh!  Lu- 
cien, it  is  sometimes  hard  to  think  of  leaving 
the  night  and  day,  the  seasons  and  the  sky.  I 
know  I shall  come  to  them  again ; this  is  not  the 
end  of  my  life;  but  there  is  a Lethe-time  be- 
tween which  I can  not  understand.  It  is  that 
which  gave  rise  to  all  the  untenable  dogmas 
from  transmigration  to  purgatory.  You  do  not 
talk,  my  friend,  and  I grow  weary.  It  may 
seem  selfish,  but,  now  that  you  know  every 
thing,  and  have  pledged  yourself  to  me,  I feel 
at  rest  and  willing  to  go  there.  Sleep  is  steal- 
ing over  me ; it  often  does  so  at  the  dawn  of 
day,  however  one  holds  out  through  the  night, 
and  many  a night  have  I been  sleepless.  By 
the  way,  there  was  a divining  dervish,  when  I 
was  last  in  Thessaly,  who  told  me  I should  die 
in  the  night,  and  by  steel ; but  I think  he  was 
mistaken.  Will  you  bid  me  good-morning? 
Kiss  me  too,  my  friend,  and  don’t  forget  to  see 
me  every  day  till  we  part ; come  at  what  hour 
you  will.  I will  take  no  more  trouble  about 
the  world’s  thoughts  or  sayings,  my  time  is  too 
short ; only  I must  take  care  that  you  are  not 
compromised  with  its  laws  and  customs.  But 
we  will  talk  of  that  again.” 

I kissed  and  left  her ; walked  home  through 
the  whitening  day,  opened  my  own  door,  and 
heard  a sound,  which  I kneAv  to  be  Rhoda  re- 
tiring to  her  own  room,  so  as  not  to  seem  anx- 
ious and  watching  for  me.  What  trouble  and 
concern  I had  been  to  that  kindly  sister!  The 
vague  fears  and  surmises  wdiich  I had  so  often 
laughed  and  argued  down,  had  banished  rest 
and  sleep  from  her  all  that  night,  while  her 
worst  forebodings  were  being  fulfilled  in  a man- 
ner she  could  not  guess  at,  and  must  never 
know.  I had  been  little  company,  and  less 
comfort  to  her.  Well,  she  would  miss  me  the 
less  w'hen  all  was  over,  and  she  and  Melrose 
Morton  were  happily  settled  in  Scotland.  I 
had  shrunk  from  that  prospect  once,  because  of 
the  solitude  it  must  bring  me ; but  now  it  was 
all  my  conscience  had  to  rest  on  regarding  Rho- 
da, and  I felt  there  were  worse  things  in  life 
than  being  alone. 


152 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

RHODA  IS  ASKED  IN  MARRIAGE. 

There  are  old  legendary  tales  of  men  being 
so  changed  by  extraordinary  sights  or  adven- 
tures that  they  were  never  the  same  again,  and 


own  small  house  and  solitary  chamber,  where  I 
laid  myself  down,  worn  out  in  mind  and  body, 
and  dreamt  the  night’s  talk  over  again,  till  the 
summer  sun  flashing  on  my  eyes  woke  me  up  to 
the  life  and  business  of  the  day.  They  had  not 
changed  the  outside  of  things ; but  my  world 


It  passes  lor  a reliquary,”  etc. 


something  of  the  kind  seemed  to  have  passed 
over  me  in  the  course  of  that  night  talked  away 
among  the  jessamine.  Between  the  setting  and 
the  rising  of  the  sun  my  whole  world  had  alter- 
ed— the  hopes,  the  feelings  that  went  with  me 
to  the  villa  did  not  come  back  with  me  to  my 


within  was  no  more  what  it  had  been.  I loved 
Madame  Palivez  still,  and  was  bound  to  her 
service  by  will  as  well  as  by  promise ; but  what  a 
service  it  was,  now  that  the  tale  was  told  and  the 
prospect  made  clear ! However  improbable  her 
family  secret  may  seem  to  those  that  read  my 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


153 


record,  I believed  it  then,  and  I believe  it  still. 
The  thought  and  experience  of  after  years  have 
convinced  me  of  the  truth  of  her  remark — 
“there  are  secrets  in  nature  for  which  the 
boasted  science  of  Europe  has  neither  name  nor 
place.”  I do  not  undertake  to  endorse,  much 
less  explain,  all  her  statements  on  the  subject ; 
but  I tell  the  tale  as  it  was  told  to  me,  and  what- 
ever may  have  been  the  cause,  the  dreadful  ef- 
fects were  known  to  be  inevitable,  and  I was 
pledged  to  be  the  instrument  of  her  escape.  The 
discovery  had  opened  my  eyes  to  our  true  posi- 
tions. As  fairy  delusions  were  said  to  fade  and 
change  before  the  disenchanted  sight,  so  all 
things  about  her  and  my  acquaintance  with  her 
took  a different  and  a ghastly  aspect.  The 
beauty  that  had  charmed  me  was  still  there ; but 
I knew  the  doom  that  hung  over  it.  The  rosy 
lips  which  mine  had  touched,  for  the  first  and 
last  time  as  it  proved,  the  bright  eyes  and  shining 
hair,  were  bound  for  the  clay.  The  wealth  and 
fashion  had  a background  of  the  church-yard 
and  the  grave.  It  was  true  that  all  lives  were 
so  bounded ; but  here  the  sword  was  seen  sus- 
pended over  the  banquet  board,  and  I had  the 
hair  to  cut.  She  must  have  seen  it  herself  for 
many  a year,  and  to  this  hour  I can  neither 
comprehend  nor  sufficiently  admire  the  innate 
strength  and  courage  that  made  her  bear  the 
sight  so  bravely,  and  bloom  so  brightly  under  it. 
My  own  part  in  it  made  me  feel  myself  a doom- 
ed man — the  cares,  the  business,  the  obligations 
of  life  lost  their  value  and  their  hold  upon  me. 
What  matter  about  work  or  provision,  repute  or 
appearances,  when  six  months  might  settle  it 
all?  My  resolution  was  taken,  and  would  be 
kept ; may  it  be  passed  over  among  the  sins  of 
that  desperate  time,  for  my  soul  had  lost  its  an- 
chor and  was  drifting  away  in  the  storm  ! I got 
careless  of  every  thing.  The  Forbes’  troubles 
and  friendship,  Melrose  Morton’s  brotherly  af- 
fection, even  my  sister’s  love  and  care  for  me ; 
and  as  for  the  world’s  thoughts  and  sayings, 
they  would  have  passed  me  like  its  wrind  and 
dust. 

I went  to  the  private  rooms,  and  I went  to 
the  villa  to  see  her  every  day,  as  she  had 
pledged  me  to  do ; her  presence  was  still  my 
fairy  land,  and  she  Queen  Gloriana.  Though 
the  flowers  had  become  church-yard  grass,  the 
gay  dress  a shroud,  and  the  gold  a coffin-plate, 
the  woman  had  charms  which  no  discovery,  no 
fate,  could  alter — those  of  mind  and  manner. 
Her  wit,  her  wisdom,  her  lively,  brilliant  fancy, 
and  free,  fearless  thought,  had  greater  power 
over  me  than  ever,  now  that  all  her  outward 
advantages  seemed  submerged  in  the  coming 
doom.  They  brought  the  conviction  and  real- 
ity of  an  after  life  upon  me  at  times,  as  prayer 
or  sermon  had  never  done,  yet  not  with  a con- 
solatory or  purifying  force. 

I was  desperate,  and  dissatisfied  too,  even 
with  her ; it  might  be  her  character  was  beyond 
my  measurement,  for  I could  never  understand 
how  it  was  that,  after  she  had  made  her  revela- 
tion, and  cast,  as  it  were,  half  of  the  doom  on 


me,  her  mind  seemed  at  ease,  her  spirits  more 
equal  and  higher  than  I used  to  find  them.  The 
pleasures  and  advantages  of  her  position  seemed 
to  be  enjoyed  with  greater  zest,  though  in  a 
private  manner,  for  she  staid  more  at  home,  and 
took  to  art  and  literature  rather  than  company. 

I was  always  received  with  smiles  and  welcomes, 
expected  to  share  her  gayety  and  enter  into  her 
enjoyments.  We  were  friends  nearer  and  more 
intimate  than  we  had  ever  been  before,  but 
there  was  nothing  beyond  friendship  permitted 
or  even  dreamt  of.  For  all  her  talk  about  our 
coming  together  in  some  distant  planet,  the 
woman  showed  no  signs  of  caring  for  me  as  a* 
man ; that  parting  kiss  when  her  fearful  tale 
was  told  was  the  only  familiarity  that  ever  pass- 
ed between  us ; and  though  she  had  concluded 
to  trouble  herself  no  more  about  what  people 
said  or  thought,  Madame  Palivez  kept  her  state 
and  ceremony  as  high  as  ever.  The  door  from 
the  Greek  church-yard  was  still  my  enjoined 
mode  of  entrance  to  her  residence  behind  the 
bank  ; Calixi  waited  for  and  showed  me  up  to 
another  roGrn  when  she  was  occupied  with 
friends  or  clients,  and  at  the  villa  there  was 
never  any  body  but  ourselves.  We  did  not 
happen  to  meet  in  public  ; if  we  had,  I am  not 
sure  she  would  not  have  passed  me  without  rec- 
ognition as  formerly.  In  short,  I thought  and 
fretted  under  it  then,  and  an  after  review  of  all 
the  circumstances  has  led  me  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  last  of  the  Palivezi,  having  always 
looked,  on  mankind  as  subjects  to  be  employed 
and  made  use  of,  had  included  me,  perhaps  un- 
consciously, in  the  general  estimate,  preferred 
only  because  fit  for  a special  purpose.  It  may 
be  I wrong  her  memory,  for  the  case  was  hard  ; 
but,  looking  back  on  the  time,  I can  understand 
the  hardened  recklessness  of  men  in  plague- 
struck  cities  or  desperate  campaigns,  and  see 
how  much  I owe  to  a preserving  Providence, 
that  did  not  send  temptations  in  my  way,  for  I 
was  hopeless  and  graceless  enough  for  any  thing. 

The  summer  waned,  and  the  autumn  was 
wearing  away  in  this  fashion.  Nobody  guessed 
my  state  of  mind  ; nobody  ever  guesses  at  any 
thing  so  bad.  It  is  probable  that  my  walk  and 
conversation  were  sober  and  steady  as  they  had 
ever  been  ; but  I was  conscious,  while  doing  my 
work  strictly  in  the  bank,  of  showing  something 
like  a general  care  for  nobody,  and  Esthers  ap- 
peared to  know  that  I was  less  to  be  trifled  with 
than  ever.  The  manager  kept  well  from  me, 
and  I was  as  willing  to  dispense  with  his  com- 
pany. I knew  now  the  cause  of  his  reminding 
likeness  to  the  ragged  man  with  the  knife,  and 
why  my  chance  saying,  “ I hope  it  won’t  happen 
to  you,  Mr.  Esthers,”  had  frightened  him  off  in 
Bolton  Row.  That  he  knew  of  my  more  fre- 
quent visits  to  Madame,  that  he  hated  me  more 
in  consequence,  I could  not  doubt ; Esthers,  as 
usual,  gave  no  sign,  but  he  was  busy  about  it, 
nevertheless. 

There  was  another  that  observed  my  ways 
and  doings,  but  with  different  eyes.  Rhoda  had 
learned,  by  long  practice  and  strange  experi- 


154 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


ence,  poor  girl ! to  take  note  of,  and  wonder  in 
silence  at  what  she  might  have  called  the  carry- 
ings-on of  her  genteel  brother.  She  had  been 
watching  for  my  home-coming  that  night,  but 
did  not  intend  me  to  know ; she  had  never  re- 
ferred to  my  long  absence,  never  asked  a ques- 
tion or  insinuated  her  surprise,  and,  over-occu- 
pied with  my  own  thoughts,  I imagined  it  had 
slipped  out  of  her  memory  ; had  she  not  Mel- 
rose Morton  to  think  of?  That  was  the  only 
satisfactory  point  in  all  my  outlooks.  Melrose 
had  got  his  uncle’s  will  settled,  realized  his  leg- 
acy, parted  company  with  the  lawyers,  but  still 
’remained  in  Bloomsbury,  and  came  to  No.  9 
more  frequently  than  ever.  I did  not  wonder 
what  his  intentions  were,  for  I knew  that  with 
Melrose  they  were  sure  to  be  honorable ; but  I 
would  like  to  hear  the  question  formally  asked 
regarding  my  fraternal  approbation,  of  which 
Melrose  must  have  been  pretty  sure  too,  and  see 
the  courtship  brought  to  a happy  conclusion  be- 
fore my  own  terrible  adventure  came  on.  It 
therefore  pleased  me  to  find  Morton  at  home 
one  evening  before  me,  seated  with  Rhoda  in 
our  little  parlor,  then  lit  up  with  the  first  win- 
ter fire.  They  had  been  talking  confidentially ; 
I guessed  that  by  the  flush  on  Rhoda’s  cheek, 
and  the  fluster  in  which  she  got  up  from  beside 
Melrose  to  look  after  the  tea,  while  he  thought 
it  necessary,  like  a true  Scotchman,  to  be  ab- 
sorbed in  the  newspaper  he  had  pulled  out  of 
his  pocket  the  moment  I made  my  appearance. 

“Any  thing  new,  Melrose?”  said  I,  doing 
my  part  of  the  small  disguise. 

“Nothing,  nothing,”  said  Morton,  speaking 
in  a strange,  frightened  tone;  and  the  horrified 
expression  of  his  face,  as  I saw  it  by  the  fire- 
light, while  he  hastily  wrapped  up  the  paper  and 
thrust  it  back  into  his  pocket,  made  me  stand 
and  look  at  him  for  a minute  without  speaking. 
What  could  have  passed  between  him  and  my 
sister  ? what  could  his  eye  have  lit  upon  in  the 
newspaper  that  concerned  us  or  him  so  much  ? 
My  uncle’s  death,  perhaps.  That  couldn’t 
frighten  Morton  ; he  knew  it  would  not  af- 
fect me  to  such  an  extent.  Yet  something 
had  troubled  and  terrified  him — something  he 
thought  requisite  to  conceal  from  me ; he  rose 
and  walked  to  the  window  with  his  hand  still 
clutching  the  pocket,  looked  out  into  the  twi- 
light, and  said,  “ Dear  me,  J did  not  think  it 
was  so  late,  I must  get  home.” 

“Nonsense,”  said  I;  “you  will  stay  with  us 
for  the  evening.  Rhoda  has  gone  off  to  get  the 
tea  ” 

“No,  Lucien,  no;  if  you  please,  let  me  go 
home.  I recollect  something  I ought  to  be 
there  for  I am  an  odd  fellow — an  old  bache- 
lor, maybe,  though  I hope  not  to  be  so  long,  if 
your  sister  can  be  persuaded;  but  let  me  go 
home  now,  Lucien  , there  are  particular  rea- 
sons why  I don’t  want  to  stay.” 

“ What  has  upset  you,  Melrose  ? What 
have  you  seen  in  that  paper  ? Is  it  my  uncle’s 
death  ?” 

“ Oh  no,  nothing  of  the  kind,”  said  Morton, 


clutching  the  pocket  more  firmly  ; “your  uncle 
is  safe  and  well,  I assure  you ; there  is  nothing 
at  all  in  the  paper — no  news.  It  is  only  a Dub- 
lin ‘ Saunders  ’ I bought,  for  old  times’  sake, 
corning  down  the  Strand.” 

“But  you  have  seen  something  in  it  that  dis- 
turbs you,  Melrose ; you  don’t  choose  to  tell  me 
what  it  is,  and  I have  no  right  to  ask  you.  If 
you  stay  with  us,  you  know  you  are  welcome ; 
if  you  would  rather  go  home,  I am  sorry  you 
think  so  little  of  our  friendship  and  society.” 

“ I don’t  think  little  of  them — I don’t,  indeed, 
Lucien,”  he  interrupted;  “don’t  put  such  a 
harsh  construction  on  what  I can’t  help ; but  let 
me  go  quietly,  and  make  my  excuses  to  your 
sister.” 

Melrose  was  out  of  the  room  and  out  of  the 
street  door  before  I could  offer  farther  question 
or  remonstrance.  I saw  him  walking  rapidly 
away  through  the  deepening  twilight,  and  Rho- 
da’s blank  look  when  she  came  up  and  found 
him  gone  was  the  first  thing  that  woke  me  from 
my  trance  of  astonishment.  “ What  under 
goodness  took  him  off?”  said  the  honest  girl ; 
“you  and  he  had  no  words,  Lucien?” 

“No  angry  ones,  I’ll  promise  you;  we  had 
neither  time  nor  occasion,  ” said  I.  “ I saw  him 
pull  out  a newspaper  as  I came  past  the  win- 
dow ; and  if  nothing  unpleasant  passed  between 
you  and  him,  Rhoda,  there  must  have  been 
something  in  that  paper  which  disturbed  Mel- 
rose as  I never  saw  him  disturbed  before  ; he 
thrust  it  into  his  pocket  that  moment,  and  left 
the  house  without  giving  me  any  reason  except 
that  he  must  go  home.” 

“Goodness  me!”  said  Rhoda,  “what  could 
it  be  ? Nothing  onpleasant  happened  between 
us,  I am  sure — nothing  of  the  like  ever  did.  Mr. 
Morton  is  a rail  gentleman,  and  always  behaves 
proper;  but  I’ll  tell  you,  Lucien,  just  for  fear 
you  would  think  there  was  any  thing  wrong — he 
was  only  axing  me,”  and  Rhoda  looked  down 
with  a very  red  face,  “ in  the  properest  and 
genteelest  way  to  be  Mrs.  Morton.” 

“Well,  Rhoda,  there  was  certainly  nothing 
wrong  in  that,  and  I presume  you  said  yes,  or 
something  to  the  same  effect.” 

“ Indeed  I did  not,  Lucien,”  and  my  sister  sat 
down  by  me,  looking  suddenly  sad  and  serious. 
“ Mr.  Morton  has  axed  me  many  a time  since 
he  got  his  legacy  settled ; not  that  I didn’t 
know  that  he  liked  me  before  that,  and  I never 
saw  the  man  I would  put  before  him,  he  is  such 
a gentleman  and  a scholar ; Watt  Wilson  is  not 
fit  to  hold  a candle  to  him.” 

“ And  why  did  not  you  consent  to  have  him, 
Rhoda  ?” 

“Well,  Lucien,  just  for  two  reasons:  first, 
that  I didn’t  like  to  leave  you  all  alone,  for  Mr. 
Morton  wants  to  live  in  Scotland ; I am  not  of 
much  use  to  you,  maybe — you  have  carryings- 
on  with  that  bank  lady  you  don’t  like  to  trust 
me  with ; I don’t  say  they  are  bad  or  onproper; 
but  oh ! <Lucien,  I never  knew  good  come  of 
nothing  that  was  secret  and  hidden.  From  the 
first  my  mind  told  me  it  would  have  been  well 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


155 


you  had  never  gone  near  her;  and,  Lucien,  I 
can’t  leave  you  till  you  get  into-  some  safer 
and  more  settled  way.  The  second  reason  is  a 
queerer  one,  I’ll  allow,  but  I can’t  get  over  it. 
Mr.  Morton  is  a complete  gentleman  and  scholar 
— has  always  behaved  proper  to  me  and  every 
body  — made  me  the  finest  speeches  and  the 
realest  of  purposals;  but,  Lucien,  there  is  some- 
thing about  him  too  that  I can’t  understand. 
He  hates  the  Forbes’ — that  is,  he  keeps  off,  ay, 
the  very  naming  of  them,  Lucien ; if  he  sees 
Miss  Helen  on  the  road  coming  here,  it  makes 
him  turn  back ; I have  seen  him  do  it,  though 
she  always  speaks  kindly  and  friendly  of  him. 

I don’t  like  that  keeping  of  a quarrel  so  long 
and  hot ; it  is  npt  like  his  other  ways,  for  Mr. 
Morton  is  mighty  sensible  and  a good  Christian, 
though  he  is  a Protestant — a black  Presbyterian, 
as  they  say  In  Ireland.  I doubt  our  aunt,  poor 
Miss  Livy,  wouldn’t  have  been  pleased  at  my 
thinking  of  him  at  all ; but  there  is  no  bigotri- 
ness  in  him ; he  told  me  over  and  over  he 
wouldn’t  meddle  with  my  religion,  though  he 
says  it  is  not  all  in  the  Bible.  Howsoever,  I 
don’t  like  him  hating  and  keeping  off  the 
Forbes’ ; I don’t  like  his  never  telling  me  what 
they  quarreled  about,  though  I tried  to  get  it 
out  of  him  as  often  as  there’s  fingers  on  me ; 
and,  Lucien,  I couldn’t  tell  you  exactly  what 
makes  me  think  it,  but  I have  a notion,  and  it 
won’t  go  out  of  my  head  night  nor  da}r,  that  he 
knows  something  about  our  poor  lost  brother 
Raymond.” 

I almost  started  from  my  chair,  for  with  my 
sister’s  words  came  rushing  back  the  long  ago, 

" lialf-forgotten  time,  when  I was  a child  in  Bal- 
timore, talking  to  the  kindly  usher  of  the  gram- 
mar-school about  Raymond’s  disappearance;  how 
his  hand  trembled  as  it  held  my  tiny  fingers,  in 
the  steep  mossy  path  beyond  the  falls  ; how 
frightened  he  looked,  and  how  earnestly  he  ad- 
vised me  never  to  speak  on  the  subject ! That 
Melrose  Morton,  my  earliest  friend,  the  best 
man  of  all  my  acquaintance,  the  most  truthful, 
the  most  honorable,  of  strict  religious  principles, 
and  moral  conduct  without  stain  or  flaw — that 
he  could  have  connived  at,  or  been  concerned 
in  the  loss  which  brought  such  ruin  and  disgrace 
upon  our  family,  was  not  to  be  imagined  for  a 
moment.  Yet  Rhoda’s  words  had  struck  a 
strange  chord  in  my  memory ; her  warnings 
against  the  bank  lady  had  proved  that  prophetic 
instinct  so  often  found  in  honest  and  simple  na- 
tures, and  might  not  that  notion  which  would 
not  go  out  of  her  head  night  nor  day  have  a 
basis  equally  true?  Something  in  my  look 
must  have  apprised  her  of  that. 

“What  are  you  thinking  of,  Lucien  ?”  she 
cried,  flinging  her  arms  about  my  neck  in 
mingled  love  and  fear — “what  are  you  think- 
ing of?  I didn’t  say  for  certain  that  he  knowed 
any  thing;  but,  Lucien,  he  might  have  seen — 
he  might  have  heard  something ; and,  maybe, 
the  bank  lady  knows.” 

“ She  does  not,”  said  I,  clasping  to  my  breast 
the  one  true  heart  that  loved  me  without  deceit ! 


or  purpose  to  be  served,  the  one  that  suffered 
with  me  under  the  same  unexplained  mystery 
ever  recurring  to  haunt  and  trouble  our  days. 
A disclosure,  as  terrible  as  it  could  be,  had  for- 
ever cleared  my  mind  of  all  the  unuttered  doubts 
and  suspicions  which  linked  Madame  Palivez  to 
the  memory  of  my  lost  brother.  “ She  does 
not,”  I repeated  ; “be.sure  of  that,  Rhoda,  what- 
ever else  you  may  think  of  her.” 

“ Lucien,  dear,  I would  think  no  harm  for 
your  sake  if  I could  help  it,  but  no  good  ever 
comes  out  of  secrets : tell  me  now  this  once,  for 
the  love  of  goodness,”  and  Rhoda’s  tears  were 
falling  fast  upon  my  breast,  “is  it  all  right  and 
nothing  wrong  between  you  and  her?” 

“ It  is  all  right,  Rhoda,”  said  I ; but  the  false 
words  came  with  a groan  as  I thought  of  my 
pledged  promise,  the  deadly  service  to  which  it 
bound  me,  my  own  consequent  doom,  and  the 
grief  and  horror  it  must  bring  my  sister. 

“ I hope  it  is,  Lucien,  I hope  it  is,”  she  said, 
withdrawing  her  arms,  and  I saw  by  her  sorrow- 
ful but  indignant  look  that  she  did  not  believe 
me.  “ That  night  you  staid  so  long  at  her  vil- 
la I could  not  go  to  bed  somehow,  but  I fell 
asleep  on  my  chair  here,  darning  stockings,  and 
I dreamt  she  came  into  the  room  with  Raymond 
by  the  hand.  I saw  them  both  as  plainly  as  I 
see  you  now,  Lucien,  and  woke  up  in  a terrible 
fright,  thinking  it  was  true,  for  neither  of  them 
looked  like  living  people.  I crossed  myself  and 
I said  my  prayers,  but  from  that  dream  I know 
that  we  will  hear  something  of  Raymond  and 
of  her;  and  I wouldn’t  have  talked  about  it, 
only  when  you  were  at  the  bank  this  morning  I 
got  a letter.” 

“What  was  it  about,  Rhoda ?” said  I,  trying 
to  recover  my  composure. 

“Well,  it  was  just  about  her  and  you;  but 
whether  it’s  a'  friend  warning,  or  an  enemy  try- 
ing to  frighten  us,  I am  not  sure.  Anyhow,  I 
kept  it  in  my  pocket,  but  I did  not  show  it  to 
Mr.  Morton,  you  need  not  be  afraid  of  that ; I 
would  let  nobody  but  yourself  see  what  con- 
cerned you  and  me,  now  that  we  are  the  last  of 
the  La  Touches ;”  and  Rhoda  took  from  her  se- 
cret pocket  a large  letter,  which  had  been  sealed 
with  a foreign  crest,  and  was  in  a handwriting  I 
had  never  seen.  It  was  properly  addressed  to 
Miss  La  Touche,  No.  9 Petersburg  Place,  Mos- 
cow Road,  and  commenced — 

“Madame, — I write  as  a disinterested  but 
friendly  stranger,  to  warn  you  of  the  imminent 
risk  and  danger  which  your  brother  runs  in  his 
private  connection  with  Madame  Palivez.  The 
nature  of  that  connection  I say  not ; the  lady 
has  strange  ways,  if  all  reports  be  true,  and  no 
man  of  a humble  station  ever  had  the  honor  of 
her  intimacy  without  paying  for  it,  either  with 
his  life  or  his  reason.  She  has  had  familiar 
clerks  before  now ; some  of  them  have  died  sud- 
denly, some  of  them  are  in  mad-houses.  Take 
the  advice  of  one  who  knows  Madame  and  her 
doings  well,  but  does  not  think  it  safe  to  tell  all 
he  knows,  and  persuade  your  brother  to  give  up 


156 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


an  acquaintance  which  will  lead  him  only  to 
ruin.  A sober,  industrious  young  man  like  him 
could  find  a far  better  and  safer  situation  than 
he  has  in  her  bank  ; there  are  those  who  would 
be  well  inclined  to  take  him  by  the  hand  if  he 
gave  it  up  to-morrow ; he  might  hear  of  them 
at  the  old  Greek  coffee-house  in  Finsbury  any 
evening  between  six  and  spven,  if  he  mentioned 
his  wish  to  the  head  waiter.  As  you  value  your 
brother’s  safety  and  your  own  future  peace  of 
mind,  endeavor  to  open  his  eyes,  and  believe 
me,  your  sincere  well-wisher  — A Friend  to 
the  Simple.” 

The  letter  had  not  been  written  by  Esthers, 
but  its  style  reminded  me  of  him ; it  reminded 
me  also  of  the  Baltic  merchant  who  had  been 
so  communicative  about  Madame’s  disposed-of 
clerk,  a version  of  the  elder  brother’s  history, 
by  all  probabilities.  It  was  written  in  good 
English,  yet  the  modes  of  expression  were  for- 
eign and  constrained.  The  prince,  whose  strong 
inclinations  and  poor  abilities  for  intrigue  Ma- 
dame had  remarked  on,  was  evidently  busy 
with  his  satellites  and  my  ongoings.  How 
much,  and  yet  how  little  they  all  knew  con- 
cerning her!  What  a watched  and  envied  man 
was  I for  her  fatal  preference!  Esthers  was 
evidently  the  chief  agent.  I told  my  sister  so 
on  the  spot,  made  her  understand  that  he  was 
jealous  of  my  intimacy  with  Madame,  explain- 
ed that  business  as  well  as  I could  without  en- 
tering into  the  depths  of  it,  assured  her  of  my 
perfect  safety,  and  persuaded  her  to  burn  the 
letter,  that  it  might  not  disturb  her  own  mind. 

“There  it  goes,  Lucien,”  said  she,  flinging 
the  paper  into  the  fire:  “I  would  believe  no- 
body against  your  word,  though  I know  you  are 
not  telling  me  the  whole  of  it.  I can  pray  that 
the  Lord  may  watch  over  you,  and  keep  you 
from  all  evil,  as  I think  He  will,  and  then,  Lu- 
cien, no  lasting  harm  will  come  to  you,  let  the 
bank  lady  be  ever  so  crafty  and  her  manager 
ever  so  full  of  envy.” 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

THE  SAVING  DROPS. 

There  was  a Cameronian  regiment  that  went 
out  to  help  in  Dutch  William’s  wars,  soon  after 
the  Revolution  of  1688,  and  had  such  a tem- 
pestuous passage  to  Holland  as  they  say  no  ship 
ever  experienced;  yet  all  came  safe  to  land. 
Their  chaplain,  who  records  the  fact,  of  course 
ascribes  the  bad  weather  to  witchcraft  and  prel- 
acy, the  acknowledged  causes  of  all  that  went 
wrong  with  Presbyterians  in  those  days  ; but  lie 
avers  that  neither  the  malice  of  the  enemy,  nor 
the  waves  of  the  North  Sea,  could  wreck  the  ship 
or  drown  the  men  for  whom  so  many  godly 
women  were  praying  night  and  day  in  Scotland". 
So  it  may  have  been  that  my  sister’s  prayers, 
though  offered  on  a rosary,  were  powerful  against 
the  tempest  and  shipwreck  of  my  soul,  which 


seemed  so  imminent.  I had  neither  faith  nor 
grace  enough  to  value  them  then,  yet  not  so 
little  of  the  latter  as  to  see  her  troubled  on  my 
account  without  compunction.  Troubled  Rho- 
da  was,  in  spite  of  my  arguments  and  explana- 
tions, which  had  silenced  but  not  satisfied  her. 
She  had  burned  the  anonymous  letter,  but  its 
contents  did  not  pass  out  of  her  memory  with 
the  flare  of  the  paper.  I saw  her  looking  after 
me  when  I went  out,  and  watching  for  my  home- 
coming, and  I knew  she  was  thinking  of  the 
clerks  that  were  said  to  have  been  disposed  of. 
Esthers’  machinations  against  myself,  had  they 
been  ten  times  as  active,  would  have  been  dis- 
regarded ; there  was  no  harm  that  he  could  do 
me  with  man  or  woman  now.  But,  that  his 
malice  and  Prince  Dashkoff’s  designs  should 
disturb  my  sister’s  peace  were  not  to  be  borne. 
Madame  Palivez  had  not  taken  her  manager 
in  hand  regarding  his  doings  to  the  Forbes’  as 
she  had  promised.  I had  always  observed  that 
she  was  in  no  haste  to  interfere  with  Esthers. 
Latterly  she  never  mentioned  him.  the  Notting 
Hill  House  people,  the  Joyces,  in  short,  any 
thing  that  might  be  troublesome  or  serious. 
Of  all  she  had  told  me  that  night  at  the  villa,  I 
never  heard  another  word ; one  would  have 
thought  the  whole  subject  had  passed  out  of  her 
memory,  and  a general  taking  of  matters  easily 
and  lightly  had  supervened,  as  if  the  lady  had 
nothing  to  do  but  amuse  herself  for  the  rest  of 
her  days.  The  change  was  unaccountable,  and 
almost  revolting,  to  me.  Was  it  the  securing 
of  a scapegoat  that  made  her  sit  down  so  con- 
tentedly under  her  vine  and  fig-tree,  while  the 
terrible  prospect  came  glooming  down  upon  my 
spirit  like  night  without  a star?  I could  not 
understand,  yet  I durst  not  rebel  against  her 
royalty  by  word  or  sign ; that  woman  would 
have  ruled  over  my  mind  long  after  my  heart 
had  gone  from  her.  I could  never  think  of 
troubling  her  with  my  private  affairs ; they  al- 
ways seemed  beneath  her  attention  ; and  now  it 
was  hard  to  bring  her  back  from  the  gai'den  of 
Epicurus  to  matters  that  approached  the  strange 
and  fearful  mystery  of  her  life ; but  I would 
speak  to  her  for  Rhoda’s  sake ; she  was  never 
wanting  in  resources,  and  could  surely  find  a 
way  to  keep  the  manager  and  his  Russian  high- 
ness from  troubling  my  sister’s  mind. 

Having  summoned  up  courage  for  the  occa- 
sion— that  was  still  requisite  in  my  dealings 
with  Madame — I went  to  her  private  residence 
! one  morning  before  the  bank-hour.  Like  all 
j people  of  Eastern  affinity,  she  was  an  early 
riser,  though  many  a night  she  sat  up  long 
enough  to  meet  the  day,  and  then  retired  to 
rest  till  after  sunset.  It  was  .a  cold,  gray  day 
in  the  middle  of  November ; her  rooms  were  all 
in  their  winter  trim,  the  Russian  stoves  in  full 
heat,  the  conservatory  full  of  bright  exotics,  and 
she  in  her  purple  velvet,  seated  in  a small, 
closet-like  room,  which  I had  never  seen  before: 
it  opened  from  the  principal  saloon,  its  door  be- 
ing formed  of  one  of  the  large  mirrors,  and  not 
to  be  distinguished  when  closed,  and  its  walls 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


157 


were  entirely  covered  with  ancient  tapestry,  on 
which  landscapes  and  pastoral  scenes  were 
worked  in  the  most  brilliant  colors  I ever  saw. 
It  had  no  furniture  but  one  low  sofa,  very  like 
a Turkish  divan,  covered  witli  similar  tapestry  ; 
on  it  Madame  sat,  with  what  I knew  to  be  her 
private  desk  open  before  her. 

“Good-morning,  Lucien,”  she  said,  looking 
up  from  her  papers;  “you  have  come  just  in 
the  nick  of  time.  I have  been  making  my  will ; 
my  mother’s  relative,  Cuzenes,  a Greek  juris- 
consult here,  has  taken  charge  of  it,  and  you 
will  hear  its  provisions  in  good  time.” 

“Its  provisions  do  not  and  ought  not  to  con- 
cern me,  Madame.”  I sat  down,  and  said  no 
more. 

“They  ought,  and  they  do,  Lucien.  I have 
little  to  leave,  except  my  plate  and  jewelry; 
but  they  are  worth  having,  as  the  world  goes  ; 
and,  with  the  exception  of  some  legacies  to  my 
old  servants,  whom  our  successors,  the  Comen- 
zoni,  are  not  sufficiently  bound  to  provide  for,  I 
have  left  every  thing  to  you,  of  course.” 

“Eor  Heaven’s  sake  do  no  such  thing,  Ma- 
dame!” Did  she  mean  to  bribe  me  with  the 
price  of  blood  ? “I  would  not  have,  and  I shall 
not  want,  a legacy  when  you  are  gone.” 

“Why  so,  my  friend?”  She  looked  at  me 
with  unfeigned  surprise. 

“ Because,  Madame,  I must  go  also ; I could 
not  survive  you,  and  the  service  to  which  you 
have  bound  me.” 

“Yes,  my  friend,  you  will  survive  me  many 
a year,  Lucien.  I have  learned  a little  of  the 
star-reading — that  knowledge  which  has  come 
down  from  the  wiser  races  that  looked  on  the 
heavens  before  us — and  I know  that  you  will 
live  to  see  gray  hairs  whitening  that  black  bush 
of  yours.”  She  smiled  on  me  kindly  as  she 
spoke,  and  continued  in  the  same  steady  tone — 
‘ 1 1 know  that  the  time  of  my  own  departure  is 
approaching  too ; I dreamt  of  my  father  last 
night,  and  we  always  dream  of  the  last  one  that 
went  when  our  own  turn  is  comings  See,  Lu- 
cien,” and  she  took  out  of  the  desk  a small  but 
beautifully-chased  reliquary  of  fine  gold,  and, 
I think,  Venetian  workmanship  : “here  are  the 
saving  drops.  It  opens  this  way ;”  she  pressed 
a small  spring  in  the  lid  with  her  finger ; it  was 
a minute  rosebud  in  the  wreath  which  went 
round  the  reliquary.  It  flew  open,  and  I saw  a 
phial,  formed  like  a closed  lotus-flower,  made  of 
rock-crystal,  and  full  of  a clear,  colorless  liquid, 
which  might  have  been  so  much  of  the  purest 
water  for  aught  the  eye  could  tell.  “It  has 
neither  smell  nor  taste,”  she  said;  “but  the 
famous  drops  of  Epaphania,  once  so  renowned 
in  Italy,  were  of  the  same  composition,  I con- 
jecture.” 

She  looked  at  the  phial  and  case  for  a min- 
ute, as  if  contemplating  some  work  of  art  or 
vertu,  then  closed  the  spring,  and  handed  the 
miniature  reliquary  to  me. 

“You  will  take  charge  of  it,  my  friend  ; it 
is  not  wanted  yet,  but  will  be  soon.  You  have 
only  to  pour  the  contents  into  a glass  of  wine  or 


water ; with  any  mixture  they  would  have  equal 
power ; unmixed,  the  effect  would  be  too  rapid, 
and  might  bring  suspicion.  When  I have  drunk, 
take  leave  of  me  and  go,  for  within  twelve  hours 
after  I will  be  at  rest ; and  neither  coroner,  doc- 
tor, nor  any  other  of  the  troublesome  institu- 
tions with  which  people’s  lives  and  deaths  are 
cumbered,  will  be  able  to  make  out  the  cause.” 
I had  taken  the  thing  mechanically,  and  sat 
there  rigid  and  silent ; the  horrible  duty  was  so 
plainly  specified,  so  clearly  brought  home  and 
intrusted  to  me,  all  chance  of  law  and  blame  ju- 
diciously avoided  and  pro\uded  against,  and  she 
prophesying  the  years  I was  to  survive  her  and 
the  gray  hairs  I should  see.  I could  not  tell 
her  then  how  fixed  was  my  resolution — how  ini- 
possible  it  would  be  for  me  to  live  with  her 
death  on  my  hand  and  memory.  There  was 
no  help,  no  hope ; I was  doomed,  and  so  was 
she.  Yet  how  calmly  the  woman  arranged  her 
papers,  told  me  she  had  put  all  that  might  con- 
cern the  Comenzoni  safely  away  for  them,  and 
that  she  had  burned  at  least  thousands  of  pri- 
vate letters  ! “Written  paper  is  always  sure  to 
tell  tales,  Lucien,  and  I will  not  have  people 
gossiping  about  my  grave  more  than  in  my  life- 
time. What  a strange  business  this  death  is ! 
The  nearer  one  comes  to  it,  the  more  inexpli- 
cable it  seems.  I wonder  if  people  get  any  in- 
sight by  approaching  it  through  slow  sickness, 
as  some  of  our  family,  who  went  young,  and  by 
consumption,  did  ? Why  do  you  sit  looking  on 
the  reliquary,  Lucien  ? Are  you  afraid  to  take 
it  home  with  you?  It  is  true  the  shining  tiling 
might  catch  your  sister’s  eye — might  rouse  her 
curiosity,  and  she  might  find  the  spring.  Bet- 
ter leave  it  in  my  desk  ; it  always  stands  here, 
and  I will  give  you  the  key  any  time  you  ask 
me.”  She  had  taken  the  gold  box  out  of  my 
fingers  and  replaced  it  in  the  secret  drawer  be- 
fore I could  answer.  “You  will  know  where 
to  find  it,”  she  continued,  displaying  the  lock, 
the  key,  the  spring  that  was  to  be  pressed,  the 
lid  that  was  to  be  lifted  ; “ and,  Lucien,  I know 
you  will  not  fail  me  in  my  extremity.” 

I don’t  know  what  I should  have  said,  but  at 
that  moment  there  was  a low  tinkle  at  the  door. 
“Come  in,”  said  Madame;  and,  with  accus- 
tomed reverence,  Calixi  made  his  appearance, 
said  something  in  what  I knew  to  be  Romaic — 
it  was  the  language  in  which  Madame  always 
spoke  to  her  Greek  servants — and  she  turned 
quickly  to  me,  her  face  slightly  flushing,  and 
her  look  both  vexed  and  angry. 

“Lucien,”  she'  said,  “it  is  Esthers.  I had 
intimated  my  wish  to  see  him  in  private  ; the 
truth  is,  I want  to  talk  to  him  about  your  friends, 
the  Forbes’,  the  annoyance  he  is  giving  them, 
and  might  give  yourself,  with  the  help  of  his 
foolish  highness  and  the  Baltic  merchants  he 
sends  about  the  bank.  I had  intended  to  do  so 
for  some  time,  as  you  know — ought  to  have  done 
it  before  now,  perhaps;  but  one  puts  off  disa- 
greeable things  till  one  feels  there  is  little  enough 
time  left  for  doing  any  small  good  to  those  be- 
hind. Well,  I thought  of  it,  and  sent  him  my  in- 


158 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


timation,  and  I suppose  it  is  the  Powers  of  Mis- 
chief that  bring  the  creature  just  when  you  are 
here;  perhaps  he  guesses  it;  but  he  shall  as- 
certain nothing  if  I can  prevent  him.  It  may 
be  weak — it  may  be  foolish,  Lucien” — the  flush 
on  her  cheek  grew  deeper,  and  her  eyes  droop- 
ed in  positive  shame — “ but,  somehow,  I do  not 
wish  that  prying,  ferreting  creature  to  find  you 
closeted  with  me,  and  I don’t  want  you  to  go 
just  yet.  Will  you  sit  here  quietly  while  I step 
into  the  next  room,  close  the  door  upon  you,  and 
receive  him  as  he  deserves  ? It  is  not  eaves- 
dropping, for  I ask^ou  to  stay;  and,  Lucien, 
my  nerves  are  giving  signs  of  failure.” 

“ I’ll  stay,  Madame,  here  or  any  where” — is  it 
an  honor  to  me  that  my  loyalty  never  failed  or 
faltered,  strange  and  bad  as  the  service  was  ? — 
“ but  before  he.  comes  up,  just  listen,”  and  I re- 
peated as  clearly  and  briefly  as  possible  the  warn- 
ing letter  to  my  sister,  and  my  own  anxiety  that 
the  manager  and  his  colleagues  should  be  kept 
from  troubling  her. 

“Don’t  be  in  a hurry,  my  friend,”  she  said; 
“Calixi  keeps  guard  on  the  approaches,  and 
Jews  are  accustomed  to  wait.”  She  made  a few 
necessary  inquiries  in  a calm,  composed  tone, 
but  with  suppressed  anger  burning  in  her  eyes  ; 
then  saying,  “I  should  have  taken  measures 
earlier,”  closed  the  door  on  me,  rang  for  Calixi, 
sent  her  commands  to  the  Jew,  whom  I heard 
coming  up  stairs  just  as  I had  crept  close  enough 
to  get  my  own  eye  to  a crevice  between  the 
wall  and  the  mirror-frame,  conspicuous  in  the 
inside  of  the  closet,  and  manifestly  constructed 
for  observing  those  without. 


CHAPTER  L. 

ESTHERS  ADMONISHED. 

The  human  mind  is  a strange  engine,  and  in 
nothing  more  strange  than  its  swift  variations. 
A few  minutes  before,  I had  been  so  occupied 
with  Madame’s  reliquary  and  its  deadly  purpose 
that  my  sister’s  cares  and  concerns  had  been  for- 
gotten, till  Esthers’  name  brought  them  back ; 
and  now,  curiosity  to  see  how  the  manager  and 
the  sovereign  lady  respectively  comported  them- 
selves submerged  every  other  feeling,  even  that 
of  manly  pride,  and  made  me  spy  upon  them 
through  the  crevice.  Madame,  at  least,  must 
have  known  of  its  convenience  for  the  purpose, 
and  could  not  have  objected  to  my  making  use 
of  it.  The  opportunity  was  too  much  for  any 
curious  man  to  resist.  I saw  every  thing  in  the 
next  room  plainly,  and  might  have  heard  plainly 
too,  if  I had  ventured  to  creep  close  enough  ; but 
the  dread  of  discovery  in  such  a position — which, 
by  the  way,  a subsequent  examination  proved  to 
be  impossible,  the  crevice  was  so  well  construct- 
ed, wide  within  and  narrow  without,  after  the 
fashion  of  windows  pierced  in  the  thick  walls  of 
ancient  castles,  and  so  dexterously  concealed  by 
the  ornamental  work  on  the  mirror’s  frame  that 
no  stranger  in  the  outer  room  could  suspect  its 


existence.  I saw  them  plainly ; and  it  was  won- 
derful to  see  the  woman,  whose  cheek  had  flush- 
ed and  eye  drooped  in  manifest  confusion  at  the 
untimely  coming  of  her  manager,  seated  there 
in  haughty  state,  like  a queen  that  had  the  mis- 
takes of  her  minister  to  rebuke  in  private.  I 
had  never  seen  Esthers  alone  in  her  presence 
before;  from  preceding  circumstances  I had 
half  expected  something  of  airs  and  insolence ; 
but  no  school-boy  brought  back  from  playing 
truant  could  have  looked  more  subdued  or 
frightened  as  he  shuffled  into  the  saloon,  and 
made  his  bow  with  awkward  humility.  The 
embarrassment  of  the  trying  occasion  seemed 
to  have  brought  positive  clownishness  on  the 
generally  active  and  business-like  manager ; he 
muttered  something  which  .1  could  not  catch  in 
reply  to  Madame’s  “ Good-morning,  Mr.  Est- 
hers; please  to  take  a seat,”  and  shuffled  away 
to  the  farthest  corner,  where  he  sat  down  on  the 
edge  of  a sofa,  rubbed  his  face  with  both  hands, 
and  looked  at  the  hat  he  held  between  his  knees. 
The  lady  turned  her  cold,  calm  eyes  upon  him 
— they  were  just  like  icicles  in  the  wintry  sun 
by  this  time — and  began  : “Mr.  Esthers,  I have 
sent  for  you  to  inquire  about  the  account  with 
Forbes’s  Bank,  which  was  not  in  its  usual  place 
when  I had  occasion  to  refer  to  it  on  Saturday 
last,  and  you  were  absent  from  the  office,  as  I 
have  observed  you  are  too  frequently  of  late.” 

“I  was  at  the  synagogue,”  said  Esthers,  in  a 
flurried  tone. 

“No  ; I am  aware  you  were  seen  coming  out 
of  the  bank  in  Threadneedle  Street  within  the 
same  half  hour.”  How  well  she  had  laid  her 
lines,  and  how  steadily  she  looked  at  him! 
What  the  manager  muttered  in  reply  did  not 
reach  my  ears,  but  it  evidently  gave  Madame 
the  key-note  of  a sound  lecture.  She  began 
and  delivered  it,  slowly,  coldly,  but  in  a tone  so 
low-pitched — doubtless  that  was  intentional — 
that  I could  hear  only  the  mention  of  Mr. 
Forbes  and  his  daughter,  my  own  name  and  * 
that  of  my  sister — half  words  which  showed  me 
that  we  were  all  spoken  of  as  patronized  people 
whom  the  bank  lady  had  a general  interest  in, 
as  far  as  wishing  them  well,  doing  them  justice, 
and  having  no  reflections  cast  on  the  house  of 
Palivez  by  any  misconduct  of  its  servants  toward 
them.  The  manager  was  permitted  to  answer 
questions  and  offer  apologies  in  the  course  of  his 
schooling,  and  I could  see  that  as  it  proceeded 
Esthers’  words  and  looks  grew  more  cowed  ev- 
ery moment.  “I  don’t  want  to  annoy  any  fam- 
ily, I am  sure ; I only  went  when  they  asked 
me,  and  I don’t  care  for  any  body’s  private  af- 
fairs— I have  troubles  enough  of  my  own,  ” came 
to  my  ears  at  intervals,  and  at  last,  out  of  what 
a thunder-cloud  of  suppressed  rage  it  seemed  to 
break — “I  have  been  treated  like  a dog  since 
that  La  Touche  came  here.”  Madame  rose  up 
from  her  chair,  walked  straight  up  to  him  within 
a pace  or  two.  I could  not  see  her  face,  for  it 
was  turned  to  Esthers;  I could  not  hear  her 
words — they  were  spoken  in  a low,  deep  voice : 
her  tones  could  become  as  deep  as  the  sea  at 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


159 


• 

times.  She  must  have  been  threatening  and 
commanding.  I knew  it  by  the  movement  of 
her  jeweled  hand ; but,  whatever  was  said  to 
him,  in  less  than  a minute  it  seemed  to  settle 
the  manager.  He  made  no  reply,  and  when 
Madame  stepped  back  to  her  seat,  I saw  him 
rise  up  in  a nervous  tremor,  his  face  white,  and 
rigid,  but  whether  with  fear  or  pent-up  wrath  I 
could  not  tell,  make  a sort  of  obeisance  like  re- 
spect taken  out  of  a man,  and  hurry  out  of  the 
room  so  quickly  that  one  could  scarcely  see  the 
door  shut  behind  him.  Madame  sat  looking  at 
it,  and  probably  listening  to  his  retiring  steps 
for  some  moments,  then  the  pride  and  the  state- 
liness relaxed  away  from  her  face  and  figure. 
“Poor  soul!”  I heard  her  murmur,  “he  was 
born  to  share  only  in  our  misfortunes,  and  will  be 
but  the  instrument  of  destiny;”  and,  rising  with 
a long-drawn  sigh,  she  opened  the  closet  door, 
and  looked  kindly  in  on  me. 

“I  have  kept  you  a prisoner  longer  than  I 
intended,  Lucien.  There  was  a good  deal  to  be 
said  to  Esthers,  and  one  must  take  some  time 
about  such  matters.  When  affairs  are  delicate 
and  complicated,  a certain  amount  of  circumlo- 
cution is  necessary.  But  I have  said  my  say, 
and  hope  he  is  sufficiently  w'arned  to  let  you 
and  your  friends  alone.  Yet  I did  not  expect  it 
would  have  had  such  an  effect  on  the  creature, 
to  threaten  him  with  his  brother  and  sister’s 
state,  which  he  thinks  I had  a hand  in,  and  one 
can  not  always  disabuse  people  where  the  de- 
lusion may  be  serviceable.  You  saw  him,  did 
you  not,  Lucien?”  and  she  pointed  to  the  crevice. 

“Yes,  Madame;  I could  not  help  looking 
through.” 

“ Tell  me,  then,  for  I know  you  have  some 
judgment  of  my  manager,  was  it  in  fear  or  in 
anger  he  left  the  room?” 

“Upon  my  honor,  Madame,  I could  not  say 
which.” 

“No,  nor  could  I.  Yet  I should  like  to 
know.  Esthers  is  a strange  creature,  and  came 
of  strange  elements.”  How  much  that  consid- 
eration seemed  to  perplex  the-  woman  who  had 
prepared  for  her  own  expected  doom  with  such 
calm  courage  not  an  hour  before.  She  walked 
up  and  down  the  saloon,  gazed  on  the  place 
where  Esthers  had  been  sitting,  and  questioned 
me  about  his  look  and  manner  till  J reminded 
her  of  what  then  seemed  rational  to  me,  that  it 
was  of  very  little  consequence  whether  the  Jew 
manager  were  angry  or  not. 

“ You  are  right,”  she  said;  “it  is  a matter  of 
no  consequence,”  and  seemed  to  shake  some- 
thing off  her  mind,  but  it  was  with  an  effort. 
“And  now,  my  friend,  we  have  arranged  all, 
you  will  come  and  see  me  every  day  as  regular- 
ly as  you  have  done  since  my  case  was  fairly 
put  into  your  hands,  my  best  and  only  physician, 
and  I will  not  leave  London.  I am  never  to 
leave  it  again,  Lucien.  Something  within  tells 
me  so ; yet  I find  no  signs  of  the  approaching 
evil.  It  will  surely  come  to  me  as  it  came  to 
the  rest  of  the  Palivezi ; yet  my  senses  and  my 
intellects  remain  clear;  that  failure  of  memory 


j has  not  recurred  again.  I am  nervous,  but  it  is 
with  the  dread  of  it,  and  also  with  the  feeling 
that  my  summons  is  at  hand.  Would  it  be  pos- 
sible that,  notwithstanding  the  health  and  vigor 
of  my  look,  some  secret  disease  was  at  work  on 
the  source  of  life  ? I have  felt  strange  tremors 
about  my  heart  in  the  sleepless  nights  of  late. 
There  was  one  of  our  house,  when  we  lived  in 
Amsterdam,  who  had  the  good  fortune  to  be 
summoned  just  when  the  fatal  time  was  draw- 
ing on.  Lucien,  if  that  should  be  the  case  with 
me,  how  fortunate  to  spare  your  friendship  the 
disagreeable  office  ! but  such  good  fortune  is  not 
to  be  expected.  I have  had  no  other  adversity 
wherewith  to  pay  the  Nemesis,  and  I would  not 
regret  this  if  it  did  not  involve  another.  That 
thought  has  gone  to  my  heart  like  a dagger 
many  a time  since  we  became  acquainted,  and 
I saw  you  were  the  man  to  do  it;  but  you  will 
think  of  me  kindly,  Lucien,  when  I am  gone ; 
as  a friend  parted  from  you  all  these  years  by  a 
prison  grate-bars  too  strong  for  mortal  hands 
to  move  or  file  away,  through  which  our  hearts 
saw  each  other,  though  dimly,  for  the  place  was 
dark,  and,  as  it  were,  shook  hands  and  gave 
pledges  to  be  redeemed  hereafter.  Think  of 
me,  too,  as  one  who  did  not  attempt  to  reward 
your  services,  because  they  were  not  to  be  bought 
or  paid  for,  but  bound  you  to  the  duty  for  honor 
and  friendship’s  sake.  It  will  be  no  tarnish  to 
these  that  you  inherit  what  I have  no  longer 
use  for.  You  will  have  earned  my  gratitude  in 
the  better  and  longer  life  to  come.  We  shall 
still  be  friends,  though  parted  for  a time.  You 
will  fulfill  the  appointed  course,  which  no  im- 
pending horror  will  make  it  best  and  wisest  to 
cut  short;  you  will  unite  your  days,  I know  you 
will,  Lucien,  with  those  of  Helen  Forbes,  the 
only  woman  worthy  of  you,  in  spite  of  her  fa- 
ther’s great  misfortune.  How  black  and  heavy 
it  lies  upon  the  man ! but  you  and  she  will  be 
happy  in  spite  of  it.” 

“Prince  Dashkoff,” said  Calixi,  opening  the 
door,  at  which  he  had  probably  knocked  without 
us  hearing. 

“He  must  be  admitted,”  she  said,  and  her 
servant  was  told  something  in  Greek.  “You 
will  have  time  to  go,  Lucien,  by  the  church- 
yard way.  I can  not  shut  you  up  again.  Shake 
hands  with  me,  my  friend.”  She  clasped  my 
hands  with  a grasp  strong  and  warm  as  a sol- 
dier might  give  his  comrade  when  parting  for 
different  destinations  on  a battle-field,  walked 
with  me  through  the  conservatory,  half  down 
the  stair,  and  when  I looked  back  at  the  church- 
yard door  with  an  unaccountable  wish  to  stay 
and  talk  with  her,  there  she  was  smiling  down 
through  the  tall  exotics,  and  motioning  me  to 
go  with  a gesture  as  light  and  playful  as  a girl 
of  fifteen.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I ven- 
tured to  disobey  her  slightest  wish,  and  stood 
there  gazing  after  her  while  she  swept  back  one 
of  the  long  braids  that  had  fallen  loose  over  her 
brow,  and  tripped  away  to  receive  the  Kussian 
prince.  It  was  not  with  my  old  fervor  of  ad- 
miration or  enchantment  that  I looked  ; a pow- 


160 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


erful  touch  of  pity,  of  grief  for  her  and  her 
woeful  doom,  had  come  upon  my  heart,  as  if  I 
had  no  personal  part  in  it,  and  the  woman  and 
her  misfortunes  were  separated  from  me  for 
evermore.  But  the  next  moment  the  thought 
of  all  I had  pledged  myself  to  came  rolling  back 
like  the  stone  of  Sisyphus,  and  I passed  through 
the  overgrown  forgotten  church-yard  with  a feel- 
ing that  its  quiet  tenants  slept  well,  and  a half 
wish,  which  kept  haunting  me  for  days  after, 
that  some  cross-chance  or  accident  might  cut 
my  own  thread  short  before  I came  to  see  that 
service. 

I had  been  always  punctual  in  business,  on 
whatever  footing  I happened  to  stand  with  my 
employers.  Now  it  was  getting  late  in  the 
forenoon,  there  was  work  to  be  done,  and  Est- 
hers would  wonder  what  had  become  of  me ; 
but  I could  not  go  back  and  sit  down  to  the 
work  in  the  office  with  those  thoughts  upon  me. 
I did  not  care  for  meeting  the  manager  either, 
after  seeing  his  penance  done  in  Madame’s 
saloon  ; so  I strolled  through  the  little  back 
streets  between  the  rear  of  the  bank  and  Fins- 
bury— nobody  there  was  likely  to  know  or  take 
note  of  me  till  the  tide  within  went  down  — and 
I emerged  on  Finsbury  Pavement  ready  to  go 
back  to  business.  I was  just  opposite  the  old 
Greek  Coffee-house  when  my  eye  lighted  on 
Charles  Barry  lounging  at  its  door,  cigar  in 
mouth,  hands  in  pockets,  and  in  the  act  of 
nodding  in  token  of  friendly  recognition  to  a 
man  who  was  walking  rapidly  down  the  street. 
My  look  followed  him  instinctively,  for  I could 
not  mistake  the  Baltic  merchant  who  had  taken 
such  an  interest  in  me  and  my  acquaintance 
with  Madame  Palivez,  and  Charles  could  tell 
me  something  about  him.  I was  by  my  suc- 
cessful rival’s  side  in  a minute ; we  had  always 
been  the  best  of  friends  before  and  after  that 
trip  he  took  to  Gravesend,  and  I suppose  my 
greetings  were  warmer  than  usual,  for  Charles 
threw  away  his  cigar,  said  it  was  a confounded 
dull  day,  and  asked  me  to  come  inside  and 
have  something. 

“ No,  thank  you,”  said  I,  “my  time  is  limit- 
ed. I left  the  bank  on  business,  and  must  go 
back,  of  course ; but  can  you  tell  me  who  is 
that  gentleman  I saw  you  nodding  to  ?” 

“ Oh,  he  is  a Russian  of  the  name  of  Rukoff 
— Nicholas  Rukoff',  I think  they  call  him — an 
amazingly  clever  fellow.” 

“ What  is  his  business  ?”  said  I. 

“Well,  I don’t  know  exactly.  He  is  a sort 
of  an  agent  for  some  Russian  company;  but 
there  is  nothing  he  don’t  know,  private  and 
public,  Mr.  La  Touche ; he  has  been  over  the 
world,  east  and  west ; knows  all  America,  all 
the  Mediterranean  towns;  the  very  heart  of 
China,  and  all  the  gaming-tables  and  spas  in 
Germany.  As  for  London,  I think  he  knows 
every  mouse  - hole  in  it,  and  every  body’s 
doings.”  Barry  was  evidently  warming  upon 
the  subject.  “I  can  tell  you  he  knows  all 
about  yourself  and  that  great  bank  lady  of 
yours.  I am  sure  I beg  your  pardon  if  I have 


said  any  thing  to  make  you  look  so  angry,  Mr. 
La  Touche,  but,  by  all  account,  she  is  a queer 
craft  and  a deep  one.  I hope  you  consider  me 
a friend,  at  any  rate.  I am  cousin  to  the 
Forbes,  though  they  scarcely  please  to  own  me 
now,  and  as  a friend  I would  advise  you  to  keep 
a bright  look-out ; there  have  been  clerks  in  her 
bank  she  was  uncommon  friendly  with  before 
now.” 

“ The  Russian  has  been  telling  vou  so,”  said 
I. 

“Well,  he  just  did,”  said  Barry;  “you  see 
he  knows  Madame  Palivez,  and  he  knows  Est- 
hers, her  manager.” 

“Are  he  and  the  Jew  good  friends ?”  I was 
determined  to  get  the  requisite  intelligence, 
whatever  nonsense  it  might  come  with. 

“Oh,  the  best  in  the  world,  always  meeting 
here  in  a box  by  themselves ; lots  to  talk  over, 
it  would  appear,  but  it  is  all  in  Russian.  Be- 
tween you  and  me,  Mr.  La  Touche,  I think 
the  Jew  has  got  Rukoff  under  his  fingers  a 
bit.  Captain  Monico  — that’s  a Mediterranean 
friend  of  mine ; we  got  acquainted  at  Malta ; 
he’s  a fine  fellow,  though  he  speaks  nothing 
but  the  Lingo  Franco,  and  it  was  to  see  him 
first  brought  me  to  this  coffee-house  — well,  the 
captain  tells  me  he  thinks  Esthers  has  lent 
Rukoff  money  to  dabble  in  Russian  stocks 
with ; it  seems  he  does  that  now,  but  he  has 
been  at  a hundred*  trades,  and  his  brother  is 
head  courier  to  that  Prince  Dashkoff  that’s 
courting  Madame  Palivez,  and  watched  you  so 
well  that  night  at  the  play.  Monico  thinks  he 
must  do  something  for  the  prince  too ; I have 
seen  him  — that’s  Rukoff,  I mean, — coming  out 
of  the  George  Hotel  in  Piccadilly,  where  the 
prince  pleases  to  stop.  They  say  he  is  running 
an  enormous  bill  there,  and  not  over  flush  of 
money ; that’s  the  reason,  I suppose,  Rukoff 
had  to  borrow  from  the  Jew  ; anyhow,  Esthers 
has  him  under  his  fingers,  and  he  is  the  very 
man  I shouldn’t  like  to  have  the  ordering  of  me 
— cold-blooded  and  crafty  as  a snake,  Mr.  La 
Touche  ; am  I right?” 

“ Pretty  nearly,”  said  I ; “ but  do  you  think 
he  orders  Rukoff?” 

“I  think  he  does,  in  a manner;  they  always 
meet  here;  and,  though  I don’t  know  Russian, 
it  is  plain  enough  that  Esthers  is  asking  him 
questions  and  giving  him  commands,  and,  to  my 
certain  knowledge,  Rukoff  fishes  out  news  for 
the  Jew  about  my  own  cousins,  the  Forbes’.” 

“How  does  he  contrive  to  do  that,  Mr. 
Barry  ?” 

“Well,  you  see,  Rukoff  is  acquainted  with 
Mr.  Forbes’s  head  clerk  — Watt  Wilson  is  his 
name;  Esthers  knows  him  too,  but  he  can’t  get 
news  out  of  him  ; the  clerk  knows  his  man, 
yon  see ; but  he  is  uncommon  fond  of  making 
money,  and  the  Russian  once  managed  a specu- 
lation in  Baltic  Stock  for  him  with  wonderful 
profits,  I believe ; it  quite  introduced  Rukoff  to 
all  the  bank  people,  and  to  Forbes  himself. 
My  Scotch  cousin  is  an  uncommonly  cautious 
man,  but  the  Russian  gets  to  know*  his  affairs 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


161 


before  any  body  in  London ; he  told  me  this 
very  day  that  Forbes  would  have  a journey 
north  on  account  of  a bank  in  Leith  that’s 
thought  to  be  shaky,  and  owes  him  no  trifle. 
Mr.  La  Touche,  you  may  take  it  ill  or  well, 
but  I tell  you  what  Rukoff  says  ought  to  be 
attended  to ; he  knows  your  uncle,  and  how  you 
and  he  happened  to  part  in  Baltimore ; could 
have  told  me  all  about  the  Joyces,  if  I had  only 
met  him  in  time ; that  would  have  been  a sav- 
ing for  a gentleman,  Mr.  La  Touche,  but  there 
is  no  help  for  by-gones.  And  he  is  one  of  the 
most  obliging  fellows  under  the  sun  ; when  we 
were  perfect  strangers,  and  I had  got  into  a 
little  difficulty  with  the  head  waiter  here,  he 
paid  off  the  score  in  the  most  gentlemanly 
manner.  Of  course  I’ll  return  him  the  mon- 
ey,” said  Barry,  hitching  up  his  pockets  ; “but 
these  small  matters  show  what  is  in  a man. 
Long  till  my  Scotch  cousins  would  do  the  like. 
He’s  obliging  and  he  is  clever,  Mr.  La  Touche, 
and  what  Rukoff  says  ought  to  be  attended  to.” 

“No  doubt  it  should,”  said  I;  “but  I know 
my  own  business  better  than  Mr.  Rukoff.” 
And  Barry  got  the  usual  assurance  that  I was 
Madame  Palivez’s  clerk,  and  she  my  employer, 
who  took  no  notice  of  me  except  in  the  way  of 
business,  and  on  account  of  my  uncle,  with 
whom  her  bank  had  long  and  satisfactory  deal- 
ings. As  it  was  no  matter  where  he  went,  the 
unemployed  sailor  walked  with  me  into  Old 
Broad  Street  in  time  to  see  Prince  Dashkoff’s 
carriage,  with  liveried  footmen  and  outriders, 
dashing  away  from  Madame’s  private  door,  on 
which  Barry  pronounced  his  decision  that  it 
would  be  a match  yet ; and  I met  his  friend, 
the  obliging  Rukoff,  emerging  from  the  office. 

Whatever  that  gentleman’s  communications 
to  the  ordering  Jew  had  been,  I found  Esthers 
in  a state  of  mind  which  nobody  could  have 
expected  after  the  scene  in  Madame’s  saloon. 
He  was  in  good  spirits,  bustling,  active,  and 
more  civil  than  I had  found  him  for  the  last  six 
months.  Never  did  the  manager  seem  more 
zealous  for  his  business,  more  careful  in  the 
performance  of  his  duties,  or  with  a higher 
sense  of  his  own  authority  and  importance  in 
the  bank,  than  he  showed  that  day.  To  me  his 
good  graces  seemed  entirely  restored ; he  bade 
me  good-morning  in  a most  friendly  manner ; 
hoped  that  it  was  not  illness  that  made  me  so 
late  — I was  generally  so  punctual  and  regular. 
I assured  him  it  was  only  family  matters  that 
detained  me,  hoped  he  had  not  found  my  ab- 
sence inconvenient,  and  professed  myself  ready 
to  make  up  for  it  by  extra  attention  to  busi- 
ness. 

“Oh,  you  ^re  always  attentive,”  said  Est- 
hers ; “we  never  had  an  English  clerk  so  much 
to  be  depended  on  ; in  fact,  Mr.  La  Touche,  I 
wonder  your  uncle  ever  parted  with  you  — you 
would  have  been  such  a help  and  such  a com- 
fort to  him  in  his  old  days.  They  do  say  that 
widow’s  son  is  getting  quite  grand  iii  Baltimore 
on  his  money,  and  the  prospect  of  stepping  into 
the  old  man’s  shoes.  Your  sister  is  not  unwell, 
L 


I hope,  Mr.  La  Touche  ?”  Esthers  kept  his  eyes 
on  the  paper  before  him,  but  the  voice  told  me 
he  was  anxious  to  know  the  cause  of  my  delay, 
and  I responded,  “ Oh  no,  thank  you,  she  is 
quite  well ; it  was  only  some  household  ac- 
counts that  were  to  settle ; my  sister  is  not  ail 
adept  in  those  matters.” 

The  story  went  down,  for  Esthers  looked  up 
quite  relieved  and  brisk.  “Well,  I am  glad 
you  came  any  time  to-day,  or  I should  have 
been  obliged  to  send  for  you.  It  is  necessary 
for  me” — how  convinced  of  his  own  grandeur 
he  looked  — “absolutely  necessary  for  me  to 
set  out  for  Dublin  to-night ; there  are  matters 
very  important,  to  the  bank,  I mean,  which 
demand  my  immediate  presence.  The  news 
arrived  only  last  night ; Madame  sent  for  me 
this  morning  as  soon  as  she  got  up,  I may  say ; 
we  were  consulting  together  all  the  forenoon.” 
I had  seen  them  consulting  through  the 
crevice  in  the  closet  door.  Little  more  than  an 
hour  had  elapsed  since  then,  yet  Esthers  spoke 
with  such  confidence  and  complacency  that  I 
felt  persuaded  reasons  of  business  had  obtain- 
ed him  a more  gracious  interview,  and  warrant- 
ed his  being  sent  to  Ireland  on  bank  affairs. 
There  was  no  time  and  no  opportunity  to  in- 
quire into  the  truth  of  that  persuasion  ; all  the 
manager’s  movements  made  it  appear  correct; 
he  put  every  thing  in  order  for  his  intended 
absence,  gave  me  more  minute  directions  than 
were  requisite,  and  frequently  recurred  to  the 
propriety  and  necessity  of  my  being  in  the  office 
at  the  usual  hour  next  day.  I promised  to  be 
in  punctual  attendance.  The  manager’s  friend- 
liness was  remarkable,  and  apparently  so  sin- 
cere, that  I believed  Madame’s  rebukes  and  ad- 
monitions had  taken  full  effect,  and  marveled 
at  the  peculiar  subjugation  in  which  she  held 
the  hard-witted  and  cunning  Jew. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

STRANGE  SCENES  IN  TWO  HOUSES. 

The  work  of  the  short  winter  day  was  over ; 
all  things  had  been  arranged  for  the  manager’s 
departure.  I left  him  in  the  office,  for  it  was 
his  duty,  and  one  he  never  shirked,  to  see  the 
bank  closed  for  the  night,  and  took  my  home- 
ward way,  secure  that  Madame  would  tell  me 
the  why  and  wherefore  he  went  to  Dublin  when 
I visited  her  next  morning.  I had  got  into 
Threadneedle  Street,  and  was  looking  for  a 
coach,  for  I felt  uncommonly  tired  of  that  day’s 
work,  when  somebody  tapped  me  on  the  shoul- 
der, and  there  was  Watt  Wilson  with,  “I  beg 
your  pardon,  Mr.  La  Touche,  but  I have  been 
lading  wait  for  you  in  a manner.  There  is  a 
person  in  Mr.  Forbes’s  office — it’s  Miss  Hel- 
en,” he  whispered,  “would  be  very  glad  to  see 
you  for  a minute  before  you  go  home.”  Miss 
Helen  in  her  father’s  office  at  that  hour,  and 
wishing  to  see  me ! “Is  there  any  thing  wrong 
with  Mr.  Forbes?”  I inquired. 


162 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


“ Well,  no,  nothing  very  wrong,  that  I know 
of/’  said  Wilson,  “ but  he  is  not  well,  poor  gen- 
tleman; has  not  been  much  at  the  bank  for  two 
or  three  days,  and  don’t  look  himself  at  all. 
Between  ourselves,  Mr.  La  Touche,  there  is 
something  very  particular  troubling  his  mind 
and  Miss  Helen’s  too;  yet  I understand  he 
means  to  start  for  Scotland  to-morrow,  on  ac- 
count of  that  Leith  bank  ; you  have  heard  what 
is  said  about  it,  I’ll  warrant,  and  our  accounts 
are  heavy,  to  the  tune  of  near  four  thousand. 
It  would  be  too  much  to  lose ; but  Mr.  Forbes 
is  rich  enough  to  stand  it,  and  I don’t  think 
it  ought  to  trouble  him  and  Miss  Helen  so 
much,  with  all  their  good  sense,  not  to  speak  of 
religion.” 

As  Wilson  came  to  that  conclusion  we  reach- 
ed the  bank  door ; it  was  open,  for  they  did  bus- 
iness later  there  than  in  Broad  Street,  and  the 
head  clerk  showed  me  to  Mr.  Forbes’s  private 
office,  a small  dingy  room  in  which  the  fire  never 
burned  well ; it  was  smouldering  and  smoking 
away  as  usual,  and  the  oil-lamp  (for  gas  was 
not  yet  in  prudent  establishments)  cast  a dim, 
hazy  light  on  the  dusty  furniture,  the  bundled- 
up  papers,  and  the  slight  figure  of  Helen  Forbes 
in  her  brown  dress,  dark  shawl,  -and  ribbonless 
bonnet,  seated  at  the  table,  and  trying  to  look 
composed  and  dignified,  as  became  the  master’s 
daughter.  Yet  the  first  glance  I got  of  her 
convinced  me  there  was  something  wrong  be- 
yond Watt  Wilson’s  knowing ; her  look  was 
worn  and  haggard,  like  that  of  one  who  had  not 
slept  for  nights,  and  the  hand  she  extended  to 
me  trembled  like  an  aspen-leaf. 

“It  is  very  good  of  you  to  come  this  way, 
Mr.  La  Touche,”  she  said,  when  the  prudent 
clerk,  knowing  there  was  something  to  be  spok- 
en in  private  to  the  family  friend,  quietly  closed 
the  door  and  left  us  alone,  “and  it  was  very 
bold  of  me  to  send  for  you  in  such  a manner; 
it  is  bold  to  ask  what  I am  going  to  do.  I 
could  ask  it  from  nobody  else  ; but  you  have 
been  always  friendly,  and  it  is  for  my  father’s 
sake.” 

“It  is  my  duty  as  well  as  my  pleasure  to  do 
any  thing  you  wish,  Miss  Forbes ; tell  me  at 
once  what  it  is — how  I can  serve  you  ;”  and  I 
sat  down  by  her  side  like  a brother. 

“Well,”  she  said,  bracing  up  her  spirit  for 
the  effort,  “I  want  you  to  go  to  Scotland  with 
my  father.  You  will  think  it  a strange  request, 
for  any  body  would ; but  oh,  Mr.  La  Touche, 
he  is  not  in  a fit  state  to  travel  by  himself.  I 
can’t  understand  it ; I am  afraid  his  mind  is 
affected ; he  is  not  what  he  used  to  be — mere 
trifles  upset  him : for  the  last  three  days  he 
seems  to  be  going  out  of  his  judgment.”  The 
patient,  self-controlled  woman  was  by  this  time 
crying  like  a child ; it  would  have  melted  the 
heart  of  a stone  t.o  see  the  tears  streaming  down 
her  pale  face,  and  her  thin  hands  wringing  in 
the  paroxysm  of  grief  she  could  not  restrain. 

‘ £ My  dear  Miss  Forbes  I ” I flung  my  arm  round 
her,  and  laid  her  head  on  my  shoulder:  it  was 
the  act  of  a friend  and  a brother.  Helen  seemed 


to  know  it  as  such,  and  did  not  move  away,  but 
leant  there,  sobbing  and  crying  like  a child  on 
its  mother’s  breast.  “What  makes  you  grieve 
yourself  so  unnecessarily  ? what  makes  you  im- 
agine the  like  ? has  Esthers  been  at  his  work 
again  ? I should  like  to  shoot  that  fellow.” 
“Oh  no,  no;  don’t  say  that;  it  is  not  his  fault: 
my  father  gets  upset  by  such  trifles.  They  were 
in  the  library  together  on  Tuesday  last,  and  Mr. 
Esthers  showed  him  something  in  a Dublin  news- 
paper he  had  got ; I don’t  know  what  it  was, 
for  I was  not  there,  and  papa  will  not  tell  me, 
only  that  it  does  not  concern  his  business  at 
all ; yet  ever  since  he  has  been  so  strange  — 
can’t  mind  any  thing  — can’t  rest  by  day  or 
night ; never  goes  to  bed  without  a light  burn- 
ing in  his  room,  and  he  don’t  sleep  at  all,  for 
ajl  night  long  I hear  him  groaning  and  praying. 
Oh,  Mr.  La  Touche,  he  must  be  going  out  of  his 
mind,  and  what  shall  I do?”  she  cried,  with  an- 
other wild  burst  of  weeping. 

I don’t  know  what  I said ; no  man  could  re- 
member his  words  spoken  at  such  a time ; but 
with  my  astonishment  at  her  tale,  and  pity  for 
the  grieving  daughter,  there  was  mingled  the 
recollection  of  Melrose  Morton's  face  when  he 
looked  up  from  the  Dublin  Saunders  in  our 
parlor  firelight,  and  found  he  had  particular 
reasons  for  going  home  directly.  I had  not 
seen  Melrose  since ; in  all  my  walks  I had  look- 
ed for  a Saunders's  News  Letter , bought  three 
different  copies,  but  could  see  nothing  in  them 
so  to  upset  my  friend.  There  must  have  been 
something,  however,  which  appealed  to  a secret 
place  in  the  Scotch  banker’s  memory  as  well  as 
to  his,  and  I felt  convinced  it  had  to  do  with 
the  subject  of  their  mysterious  quarrel.  There 
was  no  use  in  mentioning  that  matter  to  Helen  ; 
she  was  as  much  in  the  dark  as  myself  regard- 
ing the  cause  of  the  dispute.  It  must  have 
been  serious  and  compromising  too,  yet  Esthers 
guessed  at  it,  so  did  Madame  Palivez ; would 
her  commands  keep  the  Jew  from  future  med- 
dling ? I believed  so,  and  comforted  Helen  as 
best  I could  with  assurances  that  her  father’s 
judgment  was  safe  ; that  every  thing  was  liable 
to  be  upset  by  matters  small  in  themselves,  but 
connected  with  sad  or  unlucky  memories.  Mr. 
Forbes  lived  too  retired,  paid  too  close  attention 
to  business,  was  far  too  charitable  and  forbear- 
ing with  such  a creature  as  Esthers,  who  did 
nothing  but  probe  into  other  people’s  affairs  and 
troubles  for  his  own  paltry  ends.  But  Madame 
Palivez  should  hear  qf  it;  I would  take  that 
upon  myself,  without  the  smallest  mention  of 
Miss  Forbes  or  her  father’s  name. 

“ Oh,  if  you  would,”  said  poor  Helen,  turn- 
ing her  face  to  me  with  such  a gfow  of  gratitude 
in  it  that  my  caution  lost  its  hold. 

“The  business  is  done  already,  Miss  Forbes ; 
to  my  certain  knowledge,  Esthers  got  such  a 
lecture  this  morning  as  will  keep  him  from 
worming  into  matters  that  don’t  concern  him 
for  some  time.” 

“The  Lord  reward  her  and  you!”  Helen’s 
thin  hands  were  clasped,  and  her  eyes  cast  up- 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


163 


ward  with  such  a look  of  earnest  prayer  as  must  | 
have  brought  down  a blessing  on  any  other 
head ; but  the  golden  reliquary  and  the  crystal 
phial  came  up  to  my  memory  as  she  sppke,  and 
the  benediction  fell  powerless.  “It  was  kind, 
it  was  noble  of  her  to  interfere  for  us,,  and  no- 
ble of  you  to  ask  her  without  ever  being  asked 
yourself.  I always  knew  there  was  something 
generous  and  good  about  Madame,  whatever 
strange  ways  she  might  have;  and  you,  Mr. 
La  Touche,  you  have  been  always  our  friend  ; 
if  we  had  taken  your  advice  the  Jew  would 
never  have  got  about  us,  and  papa  might  not 
have  been  so  troubled.  I am  sure  he  has  made 
him  worse  ; but  I am  spending  your  time  and 
my  own  shamefully,”  said  Helen,  wiping  her 
eyes;  “it  is  my  weakness  and  sinfulness,  no 
doubt,  that  make  me  stand  the  trial  so  badly, 
for,  like  all  other  afflictions,  it  is  appointed  by 
eternal  wisdom  for  our  good  and  purifying. 
But  let  me  come  to  the  subject  on  which  I sent 
for  you  : can  you,  will  you  go  to  Scotland  with 
my  father  ? He  must  and  will  go  to  look  after 
his  accounts  with  the  Leith  bank,  which  they 
say  is  not  quite  safe.  I can’t  think  of  his  trav- 
eling alone;  he  won’t  let  me  go  with  him,  he 
won’t  let  Wilson;  in  short,  he  won’t  have  any 
body  but  you.  It  was  himself  suggested  that 
at  first,  and  yet,  Mr.  La  Touche,  I had  such 
work  to  get  his  consent  before  I would  ask  you  ; 
one  moment  he  was  for  it,  the  next  quite  against 
it,  and  it  was  only  this  evening  at  the  last  hour 
that  I could  get  his  leave  to  come  here  and  send 
for  you,  for  he  told  me  a hundred  times  it  was 
a thing  he  could  not  ask  himself,  and  he  was 
afraid  of  Esthers  knowing  any  thing  about  it ; 
the  manager  might  offer  to  go,  you  know,”  and 
Helen  shuddered  in  her  chair  at  the  very 
thought.  I could  not  terrify  her  farther  by 
mentioning  that  Esthers  had  got  the  news  of 
her  father’s  intended  journey  from  his  emissary 
Rukoff ; but  my  own  engagement  to  see  Ma- 
dame Palivez  every  day  made  me  answer,  “I 
should  think  it  a small  matter  to  travel  with 
your  father  to  Scotland  or  any  where  else,  if 
my  time  were  at  my  own  disposal.” 

“Oh,  that  is  just  what  we  thought,”  said 
Helen  ; “and  I suppose  you  will  think  me  very 
forward,  but  I left  home  with  the  intention  of 
going  to  ask  Madame  Palivez  myself,  if  you 
were  willing.  I should  not  be  afraid  to  ask  any 
thing  in  reason  from  that  noble  lady,  and  I am 
sure  she  would  not  refuse  to  let  you  go  to  Scot- 
land with  a friend  too  weak  to  travel  by  him- 
self.” I had  revolved  the  whole  subject  in  my 
mind  by  this  time,  and  I don’t  know  if  it 
should  be  called  cowardly  or  not,  but  my  wish 
to  serve  Mr.  Forbes  and  his  daughter  was  min- 
gled with  a vague  hope  that  thereby  something 
might  happen  to  take  me  out  of  the  way  of 
the  darker  service  to  which  I was  pledged  and 
bound.  At  any  rate,  it  would  never  do  to  let 
Helen  ask  leave  for  me  under  the  circumstances. 
Better  to  go  myself,  explain  matters  fully  to 
Madame,  and  be  guided  by  her  wish  that  I 
should  go  or  stay.  “ You  might  not  be  afraid, 


Miss  Forbes ; Madame  Palivez  is  both  generous 
and  considerate,  but  particular  reasons  make  it 
difficult  for  me  to  be  spared  from  the  bank  just 
now ; I am  the  only  English  clerk,  and  Esthers 
is  going  to  Ireland  by  the  Dublin  packet  that 
sails  at  ten  this  evening,  so  there  is  no  danger 
of  him  offering  to  go  with  your  father.” 

“What  can  he  be  going  to  do  in  Ireland?” 
said  Helen,  fearfully,  as  if  she  were  thinking  of 
the  Saunders. 

“ Oh,  it  is  only  bank  business ; but  when  does 
your  father  think  of  setting  out  ?” 

“ By  the  northern  mail ; it  goes  at  seven  in 
the  morning.” 

“To-morrow!”  said  I,  amazed  at  the  short 
time  allowed  me  for  thought  or  leave-getting. 

“Yes,”  said  poor  Helen,  and  a slight  flush 
rose  on  her  thin  cheek;  “the  time  is  shame- 
fully short,  but  you  can  have  linens  and  every 
thing  you  want  from  our  house ; and  I could 
not  get  papa’s  consent  a moment  sooner.” 

If  one  goes  to  do  a service,  there  is  nothing 
like  doing  it  heartily,  and  without  raising  its 
price.  “ If  Madame  can  spare  me,  I know  she 
will,”  said  I ; “ and  it  would  be  more  suitable  for 
myself  to  ask  than  put  you  to  that  trouble.  She 
may  be  engaged  with  company  at  this  hour; 
give  me  five  minutes  to  write  a note  here.  I 
will  try  to  get  it  delivered  into  her  hands,  if 
it  is  not  convenient  to  see  her,  and  come  back 
with  an  answer  in  good  time  to  see  you  home.” 
Helen  thanked  and  praised  me  till  I had  to  stop 
her  with  the  usual  account  of  how  much  I and 
my  family  owed  to  her  father.  I lost  no  time 
in  putting  plainly  on  the  paper  her  request,  and 
the  reasons  of  it,  as  far  as  I knew  them  ; inti- 
mated my  obligations  to  the  Forbes’,  and  at  the 
same  time  my  resolution  not  to  break  through 
the  arrangement  Madame  had  made  with  me, 
except  she  thought  it  expedient,  and  craved  an 
immediate  answer,  as  the  time  pressed. 

With  this  billet,  sealed,  and  endorsed  “Pri- 
vate and  important,”  I started  for  Old  Broad 
Street,  telling  Helen  to  wait  my  return,  and 
promising  not  to  be  long.  The  evening  quiet 
which  falls  on  that  seat  of  Eastern  business  was 
even  more  marked  then  than  it  is  now ; every 
office  was  shut,  all  the  people  gone  or  with- 
drawn into  the  interiors,  a few  oil-lamps,  at 
wide  intervals  glimmered  through  the  misty 
night,  which  had  by  this  time  fallen,  and  a sol- 
itary watchman,  specially  retained  for  that  pur- 
pose, and  armed  with  his  old-fashioned  staff 
and  lantern,  paced  up  and  down  in  front  of  the 
Palivez  bank.  Its  doors  and  windows  were  fast 
shut  up  and  barred ; there  was  not  a better  se- 
cured house  in  the  City.  But  I went  at  once 
to  the  private  door,  and,  after  knocking  twice, 
was  admitted  by  the  porter.  My  request  to  see 
Madame  Palivez  was  as  usual  answered  by  the 
appearance  of  Calixi ; but  he  solemnly  assui'ed 
the  Signor  that  Madame  had  already  retired  to 
her  chamber,,  and,  if  the  note  were  in  haste, 
there  was  no  use  in  giving  him  charge  of  it,  as, 
according  to  the  rule  of  the  house,  nobody  but 
Madame  Oniga  or  the  maids  could  approach  her 


1 64: 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


sleeping  apartment.  I was  not  prepared  for 
that  place  of  Eastern  etiquette;  but  knowing 
the  rules  of  the  house  to  be  like  the  laws  of  the 
Medes  and  Persians,  I attempted  no  persuasion, 
but  bent  my  steps  to  the  door  of  the  sunk  flat, 
where  the  Russian  housekeeper  was  sure  to  be 
•found.  There  had  been  uninterrupted  civility 
between  her  and  myself  ever  since  my  coming 
to  the  bank,  and  I had  no  doubt  that  if  I went 
down  quietly  and  made  my  wishes  known,  she 
would  do  all  in  her  power  to  further  them.  Down 
I went  on  tiptoe ; there  was  no  sound  to  be 
heard,  no  light  to  be  seen,  though  I found  the 
outer  door  open  as  if  by  some  neglect,  unusual 
under  Madame  Oniga’s  administration,  and  step- 
ped into  the  passage  beyond.  Nobody  yet  to 
be  heard  or  seen.  I stood  for  a moment,  un- 
willing to  knock  or  call — it  was  not  my  policy 
to  attract  the  attention  of  the  household — when 
a dreary,  monotonous  sound  from  the  other  end 
of  the  passage  struck  my  ear.  It  resembled 
nothing  that  ever  I heard  but  the  chant  which 
came  up  with  the  smoke  of  incense  from  the 
lower  apartments  of  Madame’s  villa  on  the  night 
of  Christmas  Eve.  An  irresistible  curiosity 
made  me  follow  the  sound,  and  a faint  light 
streaming  from  a half-open  door  at  the  end  of 
the  passage  at  length  cleared  up  the  mystery, 
for  there,  in  a small  vaulted  room,  with  a min- 
iature altar,  a Greek  crucifix,  and  some  undis- 
tinguishable  paintings,  half  hidden  by  a sort  of 
carved  wooden  screen,  was  Madame  Oniga  and 
all  the  female  servants  of  the  house  on  their 
knees,  and  almost  on  their  faces,  while  the 
housekeeper  read,  or  rather  chanted,  from  a 
large  black  book — what  I guessed  to  be  some 
prayers  from  the  Greek  Liturgy,  in  the  old 
Sclavonic  tongue,  which  all  devout  Russians 
consider  sacred  to  religion.  The  household 
were  at  their  evening  prayer,  and  it  would  be 
imprudent  as  well  as  improper  to  disturb  them. 
I crept  softly  away,  my  eyes  now  accustomed  to 
the  darkness  of  the  passage,  and  my  steps,  which 
were  always  light  for  a man,  rendered  inaudible 
by  the  Indian  matting,  with  which  the  entire 
house  was  coated  for  the  winter. 

Every  turn  of  the  place  was  well  known  to 
me,  and  I was  in  no  danger  of  discovery ; the 
cleyks  were  all  in  their  rooms  above ; most  of 
them  retired  early,  and  those  who  did  not  were 
sure  to  be  smoking  in  the  common  room.  I 
reached  the  foot  of  the  stair  which  led  up  to  the 
ground  floor,  and  stepped  up  a little  way,  so  as 
not  to  be  seen  spying  on  the  household  in  their 
private  chapel ; but  there  was  light  above  also ; 
a broad  bright  gleam  flashed  along  the  passage 
from  the  direction  of  the  bank.  Who  could  be 
there,  when  it  was  all  shut  up  and  silent  ? I 
crept  up  and  along  the  passage,  the  gleam  still 
guiding  me,  till  I saw  it  came  from  Esthers’  of- 
fice. What  could  the  manager  be  about  so  late  ? 
The  door  was  perfectly  ajar,  and  there  was  a 
convenient  angle  in  which  one  could  stand  in 
the  darkness  and  look  right  into  the  room.  I 
stood  and  looked,  for  my  curiosity  regarding  the 
ferreting  Jew  was  boundless.  He  was  seated  in 


front  of  his  own  desk,  on  one  of  the  highest 
chairs  ; his  face  was  working  like  a gathering 
storm-cloud;  his  lips  were  moving  rapidly,  but 
no  sound  came  from  them ; the  long,  brown, 
skinny  fingers  were  in  rapid  motion,  telling  his 
arguments  or  commands  to  one  no  other  voice 
could  reach ; for,  on  a low  stool,  almost  at  his 
feet,  but  with  her  face  turned  toward  him,  and 
her  hands  in  motion  equal  to  his  own,  sat  Han- 
nah Clark.  While  the  rest  of  the  household 
knelt  at  their  evening  prayer,  she  had  stolen 
away,  unmissed  and  unobserved,  to  converse 
with  the  Jew.  Hannah  had  as  little  part  in 
Madame  Oniga’s  Greek  Liturgy  as  she  had  in 
our  Roman  Mass ; but  there  was  an  influence 
which  could  reach  the  sealed-up  springs  of.  her 
life  and  thought — a tutor  who  knew  how  to  send 
his  instructions  home  to  her  voiceless  mind. 
How  eagerly  her  eyes  followed  every  movement 
of  his  face  or  hands  ! How  keenly  she  seemed 
to  comprehend  every  tittle  of  the  tale  he  told 
her — for  a tale  it  was,  a long  rehearsal  of  cir- 
cumstances, and  not  pleasant  ones,  which  must 
have  concerned  himself — Esthers  was  far  too 
much  in  earnest  for  it  to  concern  any  body  else. 
What  summary  of  wrath  and  wrong  was  he  dis- 
closing to  Hannah,  and  for  what  purpose?  Had 
it  been  uttered  in  words,  though  in  the  lowest 
whisper,  I must  have  caught  its  import,  from 
my  position  and  the  deep  silence  of  the  house. 
No  man  knows  what  sort  of  learning  he  may 
find  most  useful.  I would  have  given  my 
knowledge  of  French  and  Latin  at  that  moment 
to  have  been  able  to  read  the  signs  that  passed 
so  rapidly  between  them,  for  the  look  of  re- 
hearsed injury  in  Esthers’  face  was  answered  by 
the  fierce  blaze  of  savage  temper  in  Hannah’s 
eyes.  Whatever  was  his  tale,  she  sympathized 
with  the  Jew  in  her  own  wild  fashion.  I look- 
ed in  at  the  door,  and  could  make  nothing 
more  of  it ; but  at  last  the  manager’s  look  grew 
crafty  and  insinuating ; he  bent  toward  Han- 
nah as  if  asking  her  to  do  something  for  him, 
and  pointed  away  to  the  back  part  of  the  house. 
$he  seemed  to  comprehend  his  meaning  as  a 
dog  does  that  of  his  master,  but  there  was  in- 
stinctive cunning  as  well  as  obedience  in  her 
look ; she  rose  up  slowly  to  her  feet,  made  a 
sign  as  if  demanding  some  pledge  or  promise 
from  him.  Esthers  directly  held  up  one  of  his 
fingers,  and  made  a motion  like  putting  on  a 
ring.  That  appeared  to  satisfy  Hannah;  but 
her  answering  sign  completely  puzzled  me  ; it 
was  a gesture  quiet  and  deliberate,  and  resem- 
bled nothing  that  I could  imagine  but  the  act  of 
killing  a chicken.  Could  it  be  that  Esthers  got 
himself  privately  served  with  delicacies  through 
the  devotedness  of  the  dumb  girl  ? Could  that 
be  all  they  signed  about  so  earnestly,  and  took 
such  peculiar  times  to  meet  for  ? 

Suddenly  a sound  below,  which  I could  not 
catch,  seemed  to  startle  the  manager ; he  gave 
Hannah  a signal,  at  which  she  retreated  so  quick- 
ly and  noiselessly  that,  though  her  clothes  al- 
most brushed  mine,  she  was  down  the  stair,  and 
probably  in  the  chapel ; while  Esthers,  ever  care- 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


1G5 


ful  of  his  own  security,  closed  the  office  door 
with  equal  silence  and  celerity,  and  thus  left  me 
a chance  of  stealing  down  in  my  turn ; and  I 
had  just  got  a suitable  station  at  the  outer  door, 
when  the  movements  and  lights  within  warned 
me  that  the  household  devotions  were  over.  I 


presence.  I am  not  sure  that  Madame  Oniga 
ever  scolded — the  discipline  of  that  house  was 
all  on  the  silent  system ; but  she  said  something 
in  Russian  to  one  of  the  maids,  who  seemed  con- 
siderably frightened ; told  me  she  was  sorry  I 
had  been  kept  waiting — they  had  been  at  pray-^ 


“He  was  seated  in  front  of  his  own  desk,  on  one  of  the  highest  chairs.” 


rang  the  door-bell  gently,  and  Madame  Oniga 
herself  appeared,  candle  in  hand.  My  apolo- 
gies were  soon  made,  and  my  business  explain- 
ed ; the  strict  housekeeper  was  annoyed  to  see 
the  door  left  open,  but  she  did  not  scold  in  my 


er,  and  she  was  afraid  Madame  Palivez  had 
gone  to  sleep ; but  she  would  send  the  note  up 
to  her  by  Hannah  Clark,  whom  Madame  liked 
best  to  come  into  her  chamber,  becausfe  she 
was  a mute ; Madame  always  liked  mutes,  and 


166 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


Hannah  had  grown  so  useful  and  intelli- 
gent. 

Hannah  was  immediately  summoned  from  the 
interior;  the  Russian  maid  seemed  to  find  no 
difficulty  in  speaking  to  her  — signs  were  in 
more  common  use  with  them  than  in  English 
families — and  it  was  curious  to  see  the  ready, 
cheerful  way  in  which  she  recognized  me,  re- 
ceived Madame  Oniga’s  wordless  commands, 
took  the  note  and  tripped  away  to  the  farther 
end  of  the  passage,  from  which  a stair,  with  a 
door  at  the  top,  led  into  the  central  court,  on 
which  the  bank  lady’s  private  rooms  all  opened. 
“Hannah  knows  every  step  and  turn  in  the 
house,  if  it  were  pitch  dark,”  said  Madame  Oni- 
ga,  as  I involuntarily  looked  after  her  retiring 
figure,  and  thought  of  the  scene  I had  witnessed 
in  Esthers’  office.  It  was  no  time  to  put  the 
discreet  housekeeper  on  her  guard  concerning 
their  intimacy ; the  maids  were  moving  about, 
and  I was  waiting  for  Madame  Palivez’s  decis- 
ion to  go  hack  to  Threadneedle  Street  and  tell 
Helen  Forbes.  I did  not  wait  long  ; Hannah 
came  back  in  a few  minutes  and  put  into  my 
hand  her  mistress’s  card,  on  the  back  of  which 
was  written,  evidently  by  a drowsy  hand,  “Go, 
by  all  means;  good-night,  and  a good  journey.” 
People  accustomed  to  great  power,  or  wealth — 
which  is  much  the  same  thing — are  apt  to  make 
every  body  serve  the  feelings  of  the  hour.  Ma- 
dame would  not  abridge  her  early  sleep  with  de- 
tail or  explanation,  but  she  allowed  me  to  go ; 
that  was  enough,  and  I hastened  back  to  Helen. 
How  earnestly  inquisitive  the  poor  girl  looked  at 
me  as  I opened  the  door!  “Madame  Palivez 
has  given  me  permission  to  go,”  said  I. 

“ I knew  she  would,  the  noble,  generous 
lady!”  and  Helen’s  eyes  spoke  more  gratitude 
than  her  words.  “You  didn’t  let  Mr.  Esthers 
know  any  thing  ?” 

“Not  a syllable.  But  it  is  late,  my  dear 
Miss  Forbes  ; let  me  call  a hackney-coach,  and 
take  you  home.” 

The  hackney-coach  was  called  and  home  we 
went,  leaving  the  trusty  Watt  Wilson  to  make 
the  bank  secure  for  the  night.  Helen  seemed 
to  feel  herself  and  her  father  safe,  since  I could 
go  with  him  to  Scotland ; but  the  considerate 
lady  insisted  on  my  sleeping  at  Notting  Hill 
House,  so  as  not  to  disturb  my  own  by  getting 
up  so  early  in  the  morning,  and  left  me  at  No. 
9 to  tell  my  sister,  while  she  drove  on  to  let  her 
father  know  that  he  might  expect  me  to  sup- 
per. Rhoda  had  been  taken  into  confidence  on 
the  subject  of  my  going  to  Scotland.  The 
friendship  between  her  and  Helen  had  been  a 
matter  of  slow  and  steady  growth,  and  seemed 
to  have  incrq^sed  as  troubles  thickened  about 
Notting  Hill  House. 

“ She  was  here  for  nearly  three  hours,  talk- 
ing and  telling  me  all  about  it.  So  humble 
and  Christian-like,  and  so  bothered,  at  the  same 
time,  I can’t  make  it  out,  and  I suppose  I never 
will,  Lucien.  It  can’t  be  all  that  Jew’s  doing, 
but  lie  has  done  a share  of  it.  I am  glad  that  you 
are  going  with  Mr.  Forbes.  It  will  be  cold  work 


traveling  there  in  this  winter-time,  but  in  course 
it’s  your  duty,  and,  Lucien  dear,  if  he  loses  a 
day  in  the  week,  or  his  wits  goes  a wool-gather- 
ing, you’ll  fetch  him  home  safe,  though  I hope 
nothing  of  the  kind  ’ll  happen ; but  one  don't 
know  what  to  make  out  of  Miss  Helen’s  talk  about 
him.  She  is  a good  young  lady,  and  oncom- 
mon  sensible,”  continued  my  sister,  all  the  while 
helping  to  pack  my  portmanteau  ; “but  she  is 
going  to  do  one  thing  I don’t  like — maybe  it  is 
wrong  to  say  so,  and  I’ll  warrant  she  didn’t  tell 
you,  thinking  the  mention  of  her  name  might  be 
onpleasant — oh ! she  is  the  rale  Christian — 
that’s  the  taking  of  Rosanna  Joyce — Mrs.  Bar- 
ry, I mean — to  keep  her  company  when  her 
father’s  away.  You  see  Rosanna  has  been  there, 
tellin’  all  her  misfortunes.  Barry  is  not  be- 
having himself  well,  never  staying  at  home  with 
her  at  all,  but  going,  goodness  or  somebody  else 
knows  where,  after  bad  company,  she  thinks. 
Jeremy  has  taken  on  with  a young  woman  in  a 
pastry  shop,  now  that  Sally  is  not  there  to  keep 
him  in  order.  Rosanna's  left  all  alone  in  the 
evening,  and  short  of  money  too,  and  Miss 
Forbes,  partly  out  of  charity,  and  partly  because 
she  will  be  lonely  and  narvous,  I suppose,  after 
her  father,  is  going  to  take  her  for  the  time  to 
be  a companion.  She  thinks  it  will  bring  Barry 
to  the  house,  and  then  Miss  Helen  will  give  him 
good  advices,  I’ll  be  bound ; but  Rosanna’s 
crafty,  and  a sort  of  relation  to  the  Jew  villain  ; 
in  short,  Lucien,  I think  it  might  be  just  as  well 
if  Miss  Forbes  would  let  her  stay  in  Bolton 
Row.” 

“Well,  Rhoda,  we  can’t  interfere  in  that,” 
said  I.  “ Rosanna  can  do  no  harm  in  Notting 
Hill  House.  It  is  not  likely  she  will  be  in- 
clined to  do  any,  having  no  interest  to  serve ; 
Esthers  is  going  to  Ireland  on  bank  business, 
and  will  very  likely  be  out  of  the  way  till  we 
come  back.” 

“ Thank  goodness,”  said  Rhoda.  “ If  some- 
body would  lock  him  up  somewhere  there,  it 
would  be  an  oncommon  good  thing ; but  the 
like  of  him  always  gets  home  safe.  So  will 
you,  Lucien  dear,  I hope,  and  poor  Mr.  Forbes. 
Was  it  not  strange  that  something  out  of  a 
newspaper  upset  him  as  well  as  Mr.  Morton  ? 
I wonder  if  it  was  the  same  paper,  or  if — ” 
here  Rhoda  looked  into  the  shirts  she  was  pack- 
ing. 

“They  are  both  losing  a day  in  the  week,” 
said  I.  ‘ ‘ Have  you  seen  Morton  since,  Rhoda  ?” 

“ Indeed  I have  not,  Lucien.  Maybe  he  is 
offended  at  my  putting  him  off  so  often,  and 
won’t  come  any  more.  Just  as  he  plaises,” 
said  Rhoda;  but  the  tears  were  coming  into 
her  eyes.  “ Gentlemen  that  is  so  easy  affront- 
ed are  not  worth  bothering  one’s  self  about,  I 
am  sure.” 

“Melrose  will  come  back,  Rhoda.  Some- 
thing in  that  unlucky  paper  has  disturbed  both 
Mr.  Forbes  and  him.  I can’t  understand  it, 
but  I suppose  it  has  to  do  with  their  quarrel ; 
but  he  is  an  honest  man  and  a true  lover  not  to 
be  offended  or  put  off  by  trifles.  He  will  come 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


1G7 


back,  and  you’ll  have  him,' my  girl,”  and  I clap-  j 
ped  my  sister  on  the  back,  and  rattled  on  about  ! 
dancing  at  her  wedding,  and  going  to  see  them 
in  Scotland.  It  was  the  best  way  of  keeping 
her  off  my  private  affairs,  for  the  thought  of  her 
brother  getting  away  so  long  and  far  from  Ma- 
dame Palivez  had  opened  springs  of  wonder, 
and  I thought  of  hope,  in  Rhoda’s  mind,  though 
she  got  no  farther  than  how  good  it  was  of  the 
bank  lady  to  let  me  go,  and  iier  manager  start- 
ing for  Dublin. 

We  parted  as  we  ever  did,  with  fond  and 
kind  leave-taking.  I promised  to  write  as  soon 
as  I reached  Edinburg;  to  take  care  of  Mr. 
Eorbes  ; to  take  care  of  myself,  and  come  back 
as  quickly  as  the  business  would  allow.  Rhoda 
gave  me  all  manner  of  Irish  prayers  and  bless- 
ings ; said  she  had  a notion  that  every  thing 
was  going  to  turn  out  right,  and  go  well  with  us 
all ; that  we  were  coming  to  the  clearing-up  of 
our  family  troubles.  Dreams  and  omens,  in 
which  I had  no  faith,  had  impressed  that,  belief 
on  my  sister ; and,  glad  of  any  illusion  that 
might  cheer  her  heart  for  the  time,  though  it 
made  the  fatal  secret  press  more  heavily  on  my 
own,  I left  her  with  a pretense  of  believing  too, 
and  strode  away  through  the  dull  November 
night  to  Notting  Hill  House. 


CHAPTER  LII. 

THE  JOURNEY  NORTHWARD. 

Mr.  Forbes  and  Helen  were  waiting  for  me 
at  the  supper-table.  They  were  sitting  close 
together ; had  evidently  talked  the  matter  over, 
and  her  relieved  look  was  a comfort  to  see. 
The  banker  was,  I must  confess,  contrary  to  my 
expectations,  as  composed  and  sensible  as  I had 
ever  found  him,  but  looking  very  ill,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  the  man’s  health  was  shaken 
rather  than  his  mind.  His  Scottish  face  was 
positively  gaunt  with  thinness  ; the  cheeks  were 
hollow,  the  eyes  were  sunkenjjand  he  had  a 
hard,  dry  cough  at  intervals,  which  did  not  tell 
of  a sound  chest.  It  was  a wonder  that  he 
thought  of  going  northward  under  the  circum- 
stances, and  did  not  send  Watt  Wilson  or  some 
deputy  he  could  trust.  I would  have  offered 
my  own  services,  but  I knew  that  rich  men  were 
always  most  anxious  in  affairs  of  property,  and 
it  might  appear  to  be.  taking  too  much  on  my- 
self. Mr.  Forbes  thanked  me  with  his  usual 
grave  courtesy  for  bearing  him  company  on  so 
short  a notice,  acknowledged  his  obligations  to 
Madame  Palivez  for  allowing  me  to  go — she 
was  always  generous  and  considerate,  whatever 
else  people  might  say  of  her.  He  wouldn’t 
have  troubled  Madame  or  me  on  the  subject 
but  to  satisfy  Helen.  She  would  not  hear  of 
him  going  to  Scotland  alone  — good  girl,  she 
couldn’t  leave  her  father  to  the  care  of  Provi- 
dence, without  whom  a sparrow  could  not  fall. 
Of  course  it  was  requisite  for  him  to  look  after 
his  accounts  with  the  Leith  bank.  I had  doubt- 


less heard  the  rumors  about  it,  not  that  he 
placed  much  reliance  on  the  like.  Idle  or  in- 
terested people  could  always  get  up  reports 
against  a firm,  and  they  had  much  to  answer  for 
who  originated  or  put  them  in  circulation.  He 
knew  I was  not  the  man  to  assist  in  spreading 
such  reports.  Good  sense  and  discretion,  not 
to  speak  of  Christian  principle,  should  keep  any 
rational  tongue  from  that  employment.  It  had 
brought  many  a house  to  ruin  or  worse ; and 
Forbes  looked  as  earnest  as  if  there  were  a 
danger  of  rumors  getting  up  against  the  estab- 
lishment in  Threadneedle  Street. 

I had  often  heard  him  speak  in  that  strain 
before.  It  was  a part  of  his  scrupulous  and 
conscientious  practice  to  take  special  care  of  his 
neighbors’  repute,  either  in  character  or  business, 
and  all  his  converse  was  equally  grave  and  sens- 
ible ; nothing  odd,  nothing  peculiar  in  his  man- 
ner that  I could  remark,  except  that  at  times  he 
seemed  occupied’and  absorbed  in  some  subject 
of  private  thought,  which  I concluded  was  the 
Leith  bank,  and  its  bearings  on  his  own. 

After  supper  we  had  prayers,  according  to 
custom.  Forbes  concluded  his  family  devotions 
with  as  much  propriety  and  earnestness  as  ever 
I saw  him  exhibit.  There  was  no  perturbation 
of  the  banker’s  mind,  that  I could  observe,  on 
matters  temporal  and  spiritual.  How  did  Hel- 
en’s fears  of  its  soundness  originate?  She  was 
notin  the  habit  of  taking  fancies.  I had  looked 
at  her  two  or  three  times  with  an  assurance  that 
all  was  right.  I knew  she  understood  me,  and 
seemed  to  have  got  herself  into  that  persuasion 
when  we  parted  for  the  night.  The  sober  and 
trusty  footman  marched  before  me  with  two  wax 
candles  to  my  room — a low  ceiled-chamber  of 
that  old-fashioned  house,  comfortably  and  even 
handsomely  furnished.  What  a contrast  jt  was 
to  Forbes’s  own,  with  a bright  fire  blazing  in  the 
grate,  hangings  of  blue  damask,  and  every  ap- 
purtenance for  sleeping  and  rising  well ! The 
footman  promised  to  call  me  at  half  past  five. 
It  would  take  some  time  to  get  to  the  mail. 
Passengers  generally  took  their  seats  in  front 
of  the  Post-office  then,  and  two  places  had  been 
secured  the  previous  evening  before  consulting 
me,  as  Helen  insisted  that  somebody  must  travel 
with  her  father.  It  was  all  hastily  arranged, 
but  pretty  well.  I thought  so,  and  fell  asleep 
in  the  richlv-hung  bed,  but  it  was  only  to  dream 
of  the  silent  scene  I had  witnessed  in  Esthers’ 
office.  Hannah  Clark  and  he  were  there,  sign- 
ing to  each  other  ; and,  strange  are  the  illusions 
of  sleep,  there  they  were  talking,  too.  I could 
hear  them  where  I stood  in  the  dark  corner 
of  the  passage.  It  was  all  about  and  against 
Madame  Palivez — vague,  indistinct  charges  of 
her  evil  doings  to  Esthers — chiefly  that  she  was 
keeping  him  out  of  his  lawful  inheritance,  the 
wealth  and  business  of  the  house,  willing  it  away 
to  strangers ; that  she  had  driven  his  brother 
and  sister  mad  by  witchcraft ; that  she  was 
keeping  Helen  Forbes  from  marrying  him,  and 
turning  her  affections  to  me.  Then  their  talk 
became  low — a perfect  mutter.  Hannah’s  voice 


168 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


in  it  was  like  the  noise  that  she  used  to  make  in 
No.  9,  but  sunk  to  a whispered  growl ; Esthers 
was  gnashing  his  teeth  and  growling  too,  in  a 
suppressed  frenzy  of  wrath  and  revenge,  it  seem- 
ed. I could  catch  no  words,  but  at  length  I saw 
him  take  from  his  pocket  a knife — it  was  exact- 
ly like  that  with  which  the  ragged  man  had 
lunged  at  Madame  in  the  solitary  woodland 
path,  only  it  opened  and  shut  like  a razor.  I 
saw  him  show  Hannah  the  spring  ; she  tried  the 
sharpness  of  the  edge,  clutched  the  handle,  and 
flew  past  me  down  the  stairs.  I tried  to  catch 
hold  of  her,  to  follow  her,  but  I could  not — 
something  kept  me  fixed  in  the  corner.  I tried 
to  cry  out  and  alarm  the  house,  for  a fearful 
sense  of  danger  to  Madame  Palivez  pressed  on 
me,  but  I could  utter  no  sound.  Esthers  came 
out  and  laughed  at  me  with  a mad  scorn,  some- 
thing like  his  look  when  he  talked  of  my  friend- 
ship with  the  Eorbes’  on  the  road  that  Sun- 
day evening.  Then  I heard  Helen  calling  for 
help  somewhere  in  the  office  behind  him,  and 
woke  up  to  hear  the  sober  footman  knocking 
at  my  door  two  hours  before  the  dawn  of  the 
winter  day,  and  knew  that  it  was  all  a night- 
mare ! 

Early  as  it  was,  I found  Helen  at  the  break- 
fast-table in  her  neat,  plain  morning  dress,  not  a 
pin  wrong,  not  a hair  out  of  place.  They  were 
used  to  early  rising  in  that  house,  generally 
dressed  by  candle-light  in  winter,  and  she  could 
never  think  of  her  father  sitting  down  to  break- 
fast without  her.  The  banker  was  looking  ex- 
actly as'  he  had  looked  the  night  before,  as  com- 
posed and  as  sensible.  After  breakfast  we  had 
prayers ; no  journey  or  exigency  was  ever  al- 
lowed to  infringe  on  the  spiritual  exercises  of 
the  household.  The  hackney-coach  to  take  us 
to  the  northern  mail  was  punctually  at  the  door ; 
Mr.  Forbes  first  shook  hands  with,  and  then 
kissed  his  daughter,  looking  sad  and  solemn  all 
the  time.  “Good-by,  dear  father,”  she  said, 
twining  her  arms  about  his  neck;  “take  care 
of  yourself,  for  my  sake,  and  try  to  shake  off 
those  miserable  fancies  the  last  words  were  in 
a low  tone,  and  there  was  something  more  I 
could  not  hear. 

“God  bless  and  keep  my  Helen,”  said  Forbes, 
as  he  moved  away  from  her  and  went  down 
stairs.  I had  shaken  hands  and  bidden  her 
good-morning,  and  was  going  down  too,  but 
Helen  followed  me.  “You  will  be  kind  to  him 
— you’ll  take  care  of  him,  Mr.  La  Touche,  I 
know  you  will,  and  if  he  fall  into  those  melan- 
choly notions  again,  you’ll  understand  it  is  only 
just  the  effect  of  old  sorrows  and  an  over-ten- 
der conscience  maybe  ; I don’t  know  ; but  you’ll 
do  what  you  can  to  cheer  him  up,  and  I will 
rest  content,  knowing  he  will  be  safe  with  you.” 

“You  may  depend  on  that,  Miss  Forbes; 
whatever  I can  do  to  serve  your  father’s  busi- 
ness or  support  his  spirits,  will  be  done  with  all 
my  heart.” 

“ Come  along,  Lucien,”  said  the  banker,  from 
below ; “ we  shall  be  late  for  the  mail.” 

I raised  the  thin  hand  that  still  clung  to  mine 


and  pressed  it  to  my  lips.  How  beautiful  she 
looked  in  the  mingled  flush  and  smile  that 
overspread  her  face,  in  the  earnest  gaze  of  pray- 
er and  blessing  with  which  she  looked  after  us 
in  the  lamplight,  which  shone  from  the  hall  door 
on  the  drizzling  night,  as  we  drove  away  to  St. 
Martin’s-le-Grand ! 

It  is  strange  to  look  back  from  these  railway 
times,  and  see  in  one’s  memory  the  crowd  of 
coaches,  the  concourse  of  passengers  and  at- 
tendants, the  hurry,  bustle,  and  noise  which  then 
surged  about  the  General  Post-office  at  the 
mail  hours,  and  about  the  notable  inns  and 
stage  stations  in  other  parts  of  London.  The 
world  of  travelers  is  all  changed  since  then. 
How  much  of  public  as  well  as  private  interest 
a man  contrives  to  outlive  within  his  seventy 
years  ! Mr.  Forbes  and  I found  our  places  and 
took  them  ; he  had  previously  explained  to  me 
that  we  should  go  no  farther  than  Carlisle  with 
the  mail ; the  nature  of  his  business  northward 
made  it  necessary  for  him  to  call  at  Glasgow 
before  proceeding  to  Leith.  I believe  there  was 
a branch  of  the  bank  there,  and  Mr.  Forbes  in- 
tended to  take  the  Glasgow  coach  at  Carlisle, 
arrange  matters,  or  get  information  in  the  west- 
ern capital,  and  proceed  either  by  post-chaise, 
stage,  or  mail,  whichever  best  suited  for  the  rest 
of  the  journey.  It  was  a dreary  travel  to  Scot- 
land in  that  season  ; the  winter  had  fairly  set 
‘a,  and  every  stage  let  us  know  that  we  were 
getting  into  his  hereditary  domains  in  the  North. 
People  accustomed  to  express  trains  would  have 
thought  our  progress  slow ; but  such  transits 
being  yet  undreamt  of,  the  immense  improve- 
ment of  highways,  and  increased  speed  of  trav- 
eling in  late  years,  compared  with  the  times  of 
their  recollection,  was  the  theme  of  all  the  eld- 
ers inside  and  out.  I think  the  northern  mail 
carried  about  twelve  passengers ; we  had  some 
variation  of  company  at  every  stopping-place 
for  breakfast,  dinner,  or  bed  — all  were  duly 
considered  and  allowed  for  in  those  days.  What 
on  earth  has  become  of  the  large  inns  in  all  the 
towns  that  liv^B  and  flourished  by  the  like? 
Mr.  Forbes  seemed  to  have  no  return  of  the 
melancholy  notions  which  his  daughter  dread- 
ed ; he  took  notes  of  the  weather,  entered  into 
conversation  with  the  most  serious  of  our  fellow- 
travelers,  told  me  his  experiences  in  earlier 
journeys ; they  were  all  confirmatory  of  the 
astonishing  progress  of  things,  for  Mr.  Forbes 
had  gone  to  Edinburg  by  the  stage  which  left 
and  returned  to  London  Avithin  the  fortnight, 
he  had  been  out  thirty-one  days  in  a swift-sail- 
ing packet  from  London  Bridge  to  the  Leith 
Pier,  and  he  had  journeyed  from  Carlisle  to 
Glasgow  in  a wagon  which  stuck  three  times  in 
the  west  country  ruts,  and  had  to  be  extricated 
by  its  own  passengers.  I felt  convinced  that 
the  shaking  up  from  ledger,  desk,  and  the  daily 
routine  of  his  retired  life  would  be  beneficial  to 
the  banker,  even  if  the  rumors  he  depreca- 
ted were  true,  and  his  four  thousand  went  by 
the  board  with  the  Leith  establishment.  The 
gloomy  fancies  were  put  off  by  the  variety  of 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


169 


scene  and  company,  the  contact  of  new  places 
and  people,  and  all  the  enlivening  effects  of 
traveling  in  those  days.  Yes,  it  may  be  an  old 
man’s  prejudice,  but  I hold  one  saw  more  of  the 
world,  of  men  and  of  manners,  got  the  dust  bet- 
ter shaken  off,  and  more  of  the  fresh  winds  of 
life  about  one,  in  a journey  of  any  length,  by 
stage  or  mail,  than  one  can  get  now  by  running 
from  one  end  of  Europe  to  the  other,  with  the 
screech  of  the  steam  and  the  thunder  of  the 
engine  in  one’s  ears,  and  every  thing  in  art  or 
nature  whirled  away  so  quickly  from  one’s  eyes 
that  there  is  no  time  to  take  note  of  them.  The 
crowd  in  the  railway  stations  is  greater,  the 
number  of  passengers  in  the  train  a hundred- 
fold those  of  the  abolished  coach  ; but  our  haste 
reduces  the  multitude  to  one  undistinguishable 
mass ; their  individualities  and  belongings  ut- 
terly lost  to  the  observer ; people  have  no  time 
to  see  or  to  talk  in  those  flying  trails  of  smoke 
and  thunder,  and  life  has  become  too  great  a 
scurry  for  either  thought  or  enjoyment. 

To  continue  my  story.  There  was  life  on  the 
great  northern  roads  along  which  we  posted,  for 
they  were  the  only  channels  of  trade  and  travel ; 
there  was  life  in  the  roadside  inns,  where  every 
soul  looked  out  for  the  coming  coach,  with 
bright  fires  glancing  through  the  wintry  mist, 
and  full-spread  tables  seen  through  their  shining 
windows ; there  was  life  in  those  larger  houses 
in  the  hearts  of  busy  towns,  to  whose  doors  we 
dashed  up  with  flaring  lamps  and  bugle  blast, 
though  splashed  with  mud  from  the  heavy 
weather,  and  glad  to  rest  for  the  night.  On 
the  highways  and  in  the  travelers’  rooms  there 
was  news  to  be  heard  and  new  scenes  to  be  met 
with  ; there  were  acquaintances  to  be  made  for 
the  time,  some  of  them  agreeable  enough,  as 
most  men  will  be  when  out  of  the  groove  and 
off  the  string,  and  not  likely  to  come  in  each 
other’s  way  again.  All  seemed  to  cheer  up  the 
banker’s  spirits;  he  was  himself,  indeed  — a 
livelier  self  than  I had  ever  seen  him — by  the 
time  we  reached  Carlisle.  But  the  weather  was 
wretched ; the  November  fog  and  drizzle  ha- 
bitual to  London  had  set  in  before  we  left ; as 
we  progressed  northward  the  drizzle  became 
driving  showers  of  mingled  rain  and  sleet,  va- 
ried with  storms  of  hail,  fierce  cutting  winds, 
and  hours  of  heavy  Scotch  mist  by  way  of  calm. 
It  would  have  been  a trying  journey  for  any  man 
of  his  years  and  state  of  health,  and  I noticed 
that  Eorbes’s  cough  was  on  the  increase,  but  he 
did  not  complain  of  it  ; the  man’s  spirit  was 
manifestly  up ; his  Scottish  zeal  for  business  in 
consequence  took  a keener  edge ; and  though 
both  tired  and  weather-worn,  we  pushed  on  from 
Carlisle  without  half  an  hour’s  delay,  being  just 
in  time  for  the  evening  coach  to  Glasgow.  The 
west  country  roads  were  particularly  cfeep,  and 
the  weather  was  worse,  if  possible,  that  night ; 
we  did  not  reach  our  destination,  the  “ Buck’s 
Head”  hotel,  a large  and  respectable  house,  still 
to  be  seen  in  Argyll  Street,  Glasgow,  and  still 
frequented  by  the  gentility  of  Northern  tourists, 
till  daylight  had  come  as  it  comes  to  Saint 


Mungo’s  city  in  November.  Its  increasing  size 
and  commerce  were  the  marvel  of  that  day ; 
they  have  increased  tenfold  since,  but  the  mud 
below  and  the  murky  sky  above  remain  the  same 
as  when  I first  saw  them  some  three-and -forty 
years  ago,  for  Nature  does  not  change,  and  she 
has  kept  there  also  the  same  hearty,  hospitable 
people,  with  their  hard  working  weeks  and  stiff 
Sundays.  Our  arrival  happened  to  be  on  one 
of  the  latter ; there  was  no  business  to  be  done, 
of  course.  Mr.  Eorbes  congratulated  himself 
and  me  on  having  reached  Glasgow  within  four 
days  from  London,  and  also  on  the  opportunity 
of  resting  for  the  Sabbath,  and  being  edified  by 
the  Presbyterian  preaching,  which,  he  averred, 
was  to  be  found  in  its  ancient  strength  and  purity 
in  the  Glasgow  kirks.  I thought  a good  sound 
sleep  might  have  served  us  both  as  well,  but 
could  not  venture  to  dissent  from  the  Scotch 
banker  on  such  a serious  subject ; I therefore 
stood  gallantly  to  the  guns  he  appointed  me, 
shared  his  breakfast  of  dried  haddocks  and  green 
tea,  to  keep  us  both  awake  and  lively ; and  when 
the  bells  began  to  ring,  and  all  Glasgow  turn 
out,  till  the  streets  looked  like  a moving  mass 
of  dark  rich  dresses  and  grave  faces,  I got, the 
loan  of  a Scotch  Psalm-book  and  Bible  — they 
kept  a supply  of  those  things  in  the  “Buck’s 
Head”  then,  whatever  they  do  now — ipade  my- 
self as  churchlike  as  possible,  and  marched  away 
with  Mr.  Eorbes  to  the  Tron  Kirk,  where  he  as- 
sured me  an  orthodox  sermon  might  be  expect- 
ed from  one  of  his  own  early  school-felldiws,  who 
was  then  a reverend  D.D.  of  great  repute  in 
pulpit  and  presbytery. 

“He  will  not  know  me  among  the  congrega- 
tion,” Forbes  observed  ; “ it  is  now  thirty  years 
since  our  last  meeting,  and  I ha^e  no  time  to 
renew  old  acquaintance ; but  he  is  a man  of 
great  gifts  for  controversy  and  soundness  in  doc- 
trine, and  the  son  of  a minister  under  whom  my 
father  sat,  and  so  did  I in  my  early  youth.  It  was 
in  his  kirk  I first  took  the  sacrament  at  the  No- 
vember occasion  ; he  preached  in  Liberton  then, 
but  was  afterward  called  to  a parish  near  Fal- 
kirk, a pastoral  farming-place,  and  out  of  the 
world  for  him ; • he  was  much  run  after  at  the 
time,  you  see,  and  never  had  an  empty  pew ; 
but,  since  the  people  were  said  to  be  God-fear- 
ing and  strict  in  the  good  old  ways  of  Scotland, 
Mr.  Henderson  preferred  them  to  the  Liberton 
people,  who  were  too  near  the  fashion  and  folly 
of  Edinburg.  I hear  he  is  minister  of  that  par- 
ish yet,  and  preaching  every  Sabbath,  though  he 
must  be  near  fourscore.  ’ People  go  with  their 
difficulties  to  him  from  east  and  west  country, 
for  he  is  a man  of  singular  insight  and  experi- 
ence ; and,  Lucien,  there  are  times  when  I could 
wish  to  be  near  him,”  and  the  banker  almost 
groaned. 

We  got  into  the  Tron  Kirk  with  some  diffi- 
culty ; it  was  unusually  crowded,  as  my  com- 
panion informed  me.  I had  seen  a Scotch  con- 
gregation when  marched  to  the  grammar-school 
pew  in  Baltimore  ; this  was  ^‘larger  gathering 
of  the  same  grave  looks  and  respectable  figures. 


170 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


In  a Scotch  church  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen 
but  the  people.  I was  looking  round  upon 
them,  let  me  observe,  with  sincere  respect,  for 
nowhere  could  be  seen  such  a crowd  of  intelli- 
gent faces,  when  the  minister,  for  whom  they 
waited  in  reverential  silence,  made  his  appear- 
ance in  the  pulpit.  He  was  an  old  man,  of  a 
tall,  spare  figure,  with  something  venerable  and 
commanding  in  his  manner  and  bearing  — a 
Scottish  face  which  was  still  eminently  hand- 
some, for  of  all  types  it  is  the  least  to  be  spoiled 
by  years ; his  hair  was  snow-white,  and  worn 
longer  than  the  common  ; his  deep-set  eyes  were 
still  clear  and  calmly  bright,  telling  of  the  ex- 
perience but  not  the  feebleness  of  age,  and 
Forbes  whispered  to  me,  “It  is  the  old  Doctor 
Alexander  Henderson.”  There  was  a glow  of 
positive  delight  in  the  banker’s  face  as  he  look- 
ed up  to  the  minister  of  his  youth,  under  whom 
his  father  sat,  and  in  whose  kirk  he  received  his 
first  sacrament,  and  nobody  could  have  imagined 
the  strong  deep  voice  which  filled  the  Tron 
Kirk  with  the  expressive  if  not  elegant  verses 
of  the  Scotch  ^psalm,  belonged  to  one  who  was 
near  fourscore.  The  service  proceeded  as  usual 
in  Scotch  kirks;  the  banker  evidently  felt  no 
weariness  from  his  journey  through  the  long 
prayers  and  unaccompanied  psalmody.  Per- 
haps he  was^at  home  in  Liberton  all  the  time, 
young  and  untroubled  with  melancholy  notions, 
which  had  come  with  his  gathering  years ; but 
when  the  text  was  fairly  given  out — it  was  (for 
I happened  to  mark  it  in  my  book  and  memory), 
“ Let  him  that  standeth  take  heed  lest  he  fall” 
— and  the  Reverend  Henderson  had  duly  divi- 
ded his  discourse  into  six  heads,  with  doctrines 
and  applications,  the  three  days’  posting  over- 
came me,  an<^  I dropped  to  sleep  in  the  corner 
of  the  pew,  most  fortunately  out  of  sight,  and 
convenient  for  that  purpose.  I heard  the  preach- 
er going  on  from  head  to  head ; it  was  only  a 
dog’s  sleep  I had,  being  haunted  with  the  con- 
tinual fear  of  nodding  or  otherwise  giving  of- 
fense to  Forbes,  when  something  like  a sudden 
start,  as  if  the  banker  had  got  a blow  or  a fright, 
woke  me  up,  and  I saw  that  he  was  as  white  as 
his  own  handkerchief,  and  sat  there  with  closed 
eyes,  compressed  lips,  and  hands  rigidly  clasped 
together. 

“What  is  the  matter?”  escaped  from  me  in 
an  involuntary  whisper. 

“Nothing — oh  nothing;  don’t  disturb  the 
kirk,”  he  murmured  through  his  teeth. 

“You  are  unwell,  Mr.  Forbes;  let  me  take 
you  to  the  inn.”  I was  going  to  rise  and  take 
him  by  the  arm,  when  he  laid  a sudden  power- 
ful grasp  on  mine,  and  whispered,  “For  the 
Lord’s  sake,  Lucien,  let  me  alone  and  take  no 
notice;  it  will  soon  be  over.” 

Our  movements  were  so  quiet,  and  the  con- 
gregation so  occupied  with  the  sermon,  that  only 
those  in  our  immediate  vicinity  observed  them 
at  all.  I saw  that  the  best  as  well  as  the  most 
friendly  course  was  to  let  Forbes  have  his  own 
way ; he  was  a man  of  great  resolution,  and, 
whatever  had  come  over  him,  was  determined 


to  attract  no  attention,  or  be  the  cause  of  dis- 
turbance to  the  listening  kirk.  He  was  wiping 
his  face  hard  by  this  time  with  his  handkerchief. 
I followed  the  direction  of  all  the  assembly’s 
eyes,  and  looked  at  the  miniver;  he  had  got 
into  a portion  of  his  sermon  which  seemed  to 
be  of  more  than  common  interest,  and  I soon 
discovered  that  the  Reverend  Henderson  was 
making  incidental  reflections  on  the  case  of  one 
of  his  own  parishioners,  a respectable  farmer, 
and  an  elder  in  the  kirk,  who  had  nevertheless 
been  tried,  found  guilty,  and  executed  for  mur- 
der at  Falkirk.  The  case  made  a great  sensa- 
tion at  the  time,  and  is  still  memorable  in  the 
criminal  calendar  of  Scotland.  The  man  had 
led  an  upright  and  religious  life,  as  far  as  could 
be  ascertained,  up  to  the  commission  of  his 
crime,  his  temptation  to  which  was  a large  sum 
of  money  in  the  possession  of  a Highland  drover, 
his  casual  acquaintance,  met  at  a lonely  road- 
side inn,  and  suddenly  disposed  of  in  a wild,  un- 
frequented moor,  across  which  they  walked  to- 
gether to  Falkirk  late  on  an  autumn  evening. 
My  memory  still  retains  the  impression  made 
by  the  old  minister’s  keen,  clear,  and  warning 
remarks;  his  text  was  no  doubt  intentionally 
chosen,  and  though  the  activity  of  Satan  and 
the  might  of  electing  grace  were  set  forth  in  the 
highest  and  stiffest  terms  of  Scottish  Calvinism, 
there  was  an  insight  into  the  deep  places  of 
human  nature,  a logical  summing  up  of  causes 
for  and  against  both  saint  and  sinner,  strange 
to  one  who  had  not  thought  of  the  like,  and  yet 
with  a kernel  of  hard  truth  in  them,  and  mighty 
uses  of  humbling  and  admonition.  These  last 
are  the  preacher’s  own  words,  and  while  I list- 
ened as  earnestly  and  attentively  as  the  rest  of 
the  congregation,  the  Reverend  Henderson’s 
discourse,  in  spite  of  Scripture  phrases  and  the- 
ological terms,  brought  Madame  Palivez  to  my 
mind,  and  I almost  heard  her  saying,  “Cal- 
vinism is  but  Christian  fatalism,  and  therefore 
true.”  The  minister  concluded  with  an  earnest 
and  impressive  application  of  the  warning  con- 
tained in  his  text.  Hard  and  stern  as  his  pecul- 
iar doctrines  seemed,  he  had  not  spared  to  en- 
force charity  for  the  backsliding  on  his  hearers, 
and  it  struck  me  as  passing  strange  that  the 
reverend  doctor  should  express  a very  satisfac- 
tory opinion  of  the  final  state  of  his  parishioner, 
whom  a jury  had  found  guilty  of  a deliberate 
and  cold-blooded  murder.  It  was  the  tempta- 
tion of  Satan  overcoming  a child  of  grace  and 
causing  him  to  sin  grievously,  but  not  beyond 
repentance,  for  he  had  gjyen  signs  of  being  one 
of  the  elect,  and  none  of  such  could  be  lost. 

I had  avoided  looking  at  Forbes  after  he  laid 
that  grasp  on  my  arm,  but  I took  stealthy  notes, 
enough  to  see  that  he  gradually  recovered  his 
composure,  and  at  the  close  of  the  sermon  ap- 
peared calm,  grave,  and  impressed,  like  the  sit- 
ters around  him.  When  the  service  was  over, 
I saw  his  eyes  follow  the  old  minister  as  he  came 
down  from  the  pulpit,  joined  his  son  and  his 
family  as*  they  came  out  of  their  accustomed 
pew,  and  exchanged  greetings  with  their  friends 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


171 


and  acquaintances  at  the  kirk  door.  But  the 
banker  made  no  attempt  to  claim  his  recogni- 
tion ; on  the  contrary,  he  kept  in  the  background 
till  all  the  group  were  out  of  sight,  and  then 
walked  with  me  in  silence  to  our  hotel.  There 
we  both  retired  to  rest  very  early ; Forbes  had 
tried  to  read  a good  book  he  brought  with  him, 
but  either  his  eyes  or  his  thoughts  could  not  fix 
upon  it ; he  gave  up  reading,  yet  was  not  inclined 
to  talk,  particularly  about  the  indisposition  which 
had  come  over  him  in  church ; and  fearing  to 
offend  him  by  taking  farther  notice  of  it,  while 
feeling  completely  worn  out  myself,  I took  the 
first  opportunity  to  get  quietly  off  to  bed. 

It  was  earlier  than  any  body  else  thought  of 
retiring ; the  few  travelers  who  had  not  gone  to 
the  evening  kirk  sat  reading  or  talking  seriously 
in  the  public  room.  Mr.  Forbes  sat  in  his  own 
private  parlor,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand, 
looking  into  the  fire,  and  advising  me  to  get  to 
bed,  with  a promise  that  he  would  not  sit  late 
himself.  All  the  large  house  was  quiet,  as  be- 
came its  respectable  character,  in  the  Scottish 
Sabbath  evening,  and,  unwilling  to  break  its 
silence  by  ringing  a second  time  for  the  cham- 
bermaid to  show  me  my  room,  I took  my  candle 
and  stepped  up  stairs,  where  the  waiter  told  me 
she  was  doing  something  in  No.  15,  and  would 
come  in  a minute.  The  upper  flats  were,  if 
possible,  more  still  than  the  lower.  I called  in 
a subdued  tone,  but  nobody  responded ; there 
was  light,  however,  in  an  opposite  room,  the 
door  of  which  stood  ajar ; I heard  somebody 
moving  about  there — a female  voice  saying, 
“ Yes*  sir,  I’ll  have  up  your  breakfast  in  good 
time.”  Then  a man  spoke ; I could  not  hear 
what  he  said,  but  the  voice  was  so  like  that  of 
Esthers  that  it  almost  fixed  me  to  the  spot.  The 
woman  replied  to  his  question,  it  was  something 
about  never  minding  trouble  for  considerate  gen- 
tlemen, and  she  would  be  sure  to  let  him  knoAV. 
The  next  moment  she  stepped  out  of  the  room, 
wished  him  good-night,  and  closed  the  door : it 
was  the  chambermaid  herself,  a neat,  active, 
and  very  steady-looking  young  Scotchwoman; 
I stepped  forward  instantly,  not  to  be  seen  list- 
ening, asked  the  way  to  my  room,  and  was  di- 
rected forthwith.  It  seemed  absurd  to  myself, 
but  I could  not  have  gone  to  sleep  without 
knowing  who  was  in  No.  15.  A man  is  never 
very  dexterous  when  worn  out  with  traveling 
and  church-going ; I pretended  to  want  half  a 
dozen  of  things,  made  apologies  for  giving  trou- 
ble, looked  civil,  would  have  offered  silver  if  I 
had  not  been  afraid  of  a misunderstanding,  and 
at  last  plumped  out,  “Who' is  the  gentleman  in 
No.  15  ? I think  I have  seen  him  before.” 
“Maybe  you  have,  sir,”  said  the  chamber- 
maid, surprised  but  not  at  all  disconcerted ; “he 
is  a commercial  gentleman  from  Manchester,  and 
his  name  is  Mr.  Taylor.” 

“ Indeed,”  said  I ; “ then  it  is  probable  he  is 
the  same.”  The  artifice  must  have  been  rather 
transparent,  but  the  steady  chambermaid  only 
hoped  I would  rest  well,  bade  me  good-night, 
and  closed  my  door  also.  I could,  then,  sleep 


in  peace ; the  manager  was  gone  to  Ireland  about 
his  business — in  Dublin  by  that  time  ; Mr.  Tay- 
lor, in  No.  15,  was  a considerate  gentleman,  per- 
haps an  old  frequenter  of  the  house ; his  voice 
sounded  very  like  Esthers’,  but  there  were  acci- 
dental resemblances  in  tones  as  well  as  faces ; 
and  he  had  come  from  Manchester,  doubtless  in 
the  cotton  line. 

One  should  not  have  been  so  drowsy  after 
sleeping  in  church,  but  the  poppies  seemed  to 
grow  about  my  head  that  night.  I had  forgot- 
ten to  bid  them  call  me  in  the  morning,  forgot- 
ten to  arrange  any  thing  of  the  kind  with  Forbes, 
and  felt  somewhat  ashamed  when  I got  down 
stairs  in  the  morning  to  find  that  it  was  late 
breakfast-time,  that  all  Glasgow  was  at  its  busi- 
ness, and  he  had  gone  out  about  his.  “ He  did 
not  say  where  he  was  going,  sir,”  said  the  wait- 
er; “he  is  gone  nearly  two  hours — a very  ener- 
getic gentleman,  sir;  he  sat  here  reading  till 
near  twelve  last  night,  and  was  up  before  any 
of  them  this  morning.”  That  waiter  was  from 
Ireland,  and  in  the  habit  of  making  similar  re- 
marks to  all  encouraging  listeners.  His  in- 
formation made  me  anxious  about  the  banker ; 
his  sudden  indisposition  in  church,  the  little 
rest  he  allowed  himself  after  so  much  fatigue, 
and  his  worn,  troubled  look  over  night,  were  bad 
signs,  and  brought  poor  Helen’s  fears  of  mental 
unsoundness  forcibly  to  my  recollection.  While 
I was  thinking  the  subject  over,  Forbes  himself 
came  back ; the  worn  look  was  still  in  his  face, 
but  he  was  composed  as  usual,  answering  my 
apologies  for  late  sleeping  Avith  “You  were  quite 
right,  lad ; you  had  a long  cold  journey  with  me, 
and  there  is  nothing  like  a sound  sleep  for  a 
young  heart  and  a good  conscience.  I remem- 
ber the  time  when  I could  sleep  long  and  sound- 
ly too,  Lucien — before  the  cares  and  the  sins  of 
the  Avorld  came  on  me,  making  my  head  gray 
and  my  heart  black.”  Were  the  melancholy 
notions  taking  hold  of  him,  or  had  he  heard  bad 
neAvs  of  the  bank  business  ? 

“You  have  been  at  the  Leith  House,  sir?” 
said  I,  intent  on  making  that  out. 

“Yes,”  he  said,  quietly. 

“And  found  things  satisfactory,  I hope?” 

“No,  Lucien,  any  thing  but  that.  Of  course 
they  did  not  say  so ; we  bank  folk  flourish  to  the 
last ; but  I have  reason  to  believe  that  the  Lon- 
don reports  are  true,  and  the  house  can’t  stand 
long.” 

“You  will  take  immediate  measures  to  have 
your  account  settled,  then  ?”  said  I. 

“No,  Lucien,  I won’t;  I’ll  never  push  people 
over  the  pit’s  edge  as  long  as  they  caq  keep  their 
footing  on  it.  I know  something  about  being 
pushed  myself.  Lucien,  never  push  any  body 
for  money  if  you  can  help  it ; many  a man  Avould 
have  escaped  ruin,  ay,  and  dark,  deadly  sin,  lad, 
if  he  had  got  time  and  sparance.” 

“But  it  is  a large  sum  to  lose.” 

“ Ay , four  thousand  pounds,”  he  said,  Avring- 
ing  his  hands,  Avith  a look  of  desperate  misery 
sufficient  for  the  losing  of  his  last  penny;  “it 
is  hard  to  lose,  and  has  been  AArorse  to  gain ; 


172 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


but  let  it  go — let  it  go.  I’ll  never  push  a tot- 
tering house,  and  you’ll  not  spread  reports 
against  it ; it  is  these  panic  rumors  that  bring 
banks  down.” 

“I  never  intermeddle  in  other  people’s  busi- 
ness, sir.” 

‘‘I  know  it,  lad;  but  we  will  go  to  Edin- 
burg. I have  taken  our  places  in  the  mail ; it 
starts  at  one,  and  will  get  in  by  six,  if  we 
haven’t  a snow-storm,  which  some  think  is  com- 
ing. At  any  rate,  we  will  go  as  far  as  Falkirk, 
not  into  the  town” — and  he  spoke  with  a sort 
of  shudder,  as  if  there  were  something  fearful  to 
be  met  with  or  expected  there  — ‘ ‘ but  stop  at 
the ‘Barley  Sheaf,’ an  old-fashioned  respecta- 
ble inn  on  the  roadside.  It  has  stood  there 
these  hundred  years  and  more,  kept  by  the 
same  family,  an  offset  of  the  Drummonds  of 
Hawthornden,  and  properly  proud  of  their  de- 
scent. The  house  was  once  a tower,  but 
they  have  altered  it ; all  the  farm  about  it  is 
their  own,  and  I can  tell  you  the  Drummonds 
keep  good  order  and  sober  hours  — at  least  they 
did  when  I last  traveled  that  way ; so,  if  the 
snow  comes  heavy,  we  will  stop  there  for  the 
night ; but  I am  forgetting  to  ask  if  you  have 
no  objections,”  added  the  kindly  banker. 

“None  at  all,  sir;  I am  entirely  at  your 
convenience,  and  will  be  ready  to  start  by  the 
mail  at  one.” 

“That’s  right,  lad;  come  along,  then,  and 
we’ll  see  something  of  Glasgow.  There  is  a 
Cathedral  and  a University  worth  looking  at, 
not  to  speak  of  the  Broomielaw  and  the  ship- 
ping ; it  is  a wonderful  town  for  growth  and 
gathering,  but  nothing  to  Edinburg,  where  I 
was  born.” 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

THE  SIN  DISCOVERED. 

We  saw  Glasgow  to  as  much  advantage  as  it 
could  be  seen  by  the  dim  and  lurid  light  of  a 
storm-laden  sky,  with  occasional  gusts  of  sleet, 
which  kept  increasing  in  volume  and  frequency 
till  the  time  of  starting.  Mr.  Forbes  knew  the 
town  well,  from  many  a commercial  visit.  He 
showed  me  most  of  its  wonders,  new  and  old  ; 
seemed  interested  and  amused  himself  in  spite 
of  the  impending  loss,  over  which,  nevertheless, 
he  groaned  sometimes — at  least  I thought  so. 
It  was  a kind  of  short,  suppressed  moan  that 
escaped  him  involuntarily  in  the  midst  of  our 
walk  and  converse.  Of  course  I did  not  appear 
to  notice  it ; but  more  than  once  I made  en- 
deavors to  persuade  him  that  he  ought  to  look 
more  keenly  after  the  accounts  regarding  which 
he  had  taken  so  long  a journey  ; and  the  con- 
cern it  seemed  to  give  him,  combined  with  his 
resolution  not  to  push,  was  more  than  I could 
account  for.  “ Was  the  man’s  mind  really 
sound  or  not  ?”  was  the  question  that  recurred  i 
to  me,  as  duly  at  one  o’clock  we  took  our  places 
in  the  Edinburg  mail,  amid  the  customary  haste  J 


and  bustle  in  front  of  the;  Glasgow  Post-office. 
The  coach  held  six  inside,  and  nobody  appeared 
to  venture  on  the.  top  ; the  bitter  wind,  sleet  and 
snow,  which  had  now  commenced  in  good  earn- 
est, would  have  been  considerations  to  face. 
Every  body  was  predicting  a shocking  bad  after- 
noon ; but  among  the  four  passengers  who  made 
up  our  complement,  I recognized  the  old  minis- 
ter, Doctor  Henderson,  whose  sermon  I had  half 
slept  through,  and  yet  could  not  forget.  How 
upright  and  actively  the  man  of  fourscore  moved 
about ! How  well-known  and  much  respected 
he  seemed  in  that  scene  of  tumult ! A posse  of 
friends  had  escorted  him  to  the  coach,  and  he 
was  specially  accompanied  by  what  the  Scotch 
would  call  a douce  man  of  middle  age,  grave, 
well-dressed,  and  apparently  well  to  do,  proba- 
bly a Glasgow  merchant  of  good  credit,  and  a 
ruling  elder  in  some  Presbyterian  kirk.  I never 
saw  the  man  before  or  after,  and  remember  him 
only  on  account  of  the  conversation  in  the  Edin- 
burg mail.  It  had  commenced  between  him 
and  the  old  minister  before  they  took  their  seats, 
and  was  resumed  as  we  rattled  out  of  Glasgow. 
I happened  to  sit  next  to  the  reverend  doctor ; 
Forbes  was  opposite  me,  and  two  Falkirk  men, 
who  might  have  been  farmers,  occupied  the  re- 
maining space.  When  our  ears  had  got  accus- 
tomed to  the  roll  of  the  coach,  every  word  was 
audible,  and  I discovered  that  the  question  be- 
tween the  minister  and  his  friend  concerned  the 
case  which,  in  Scotch  parlance,  the  former  had 
improved  in  his  sermon  on  the  previous  clay. 
The  merchant  evidently  dissented  from  the  rev- 
erend doctor’s  views  on  the  evidences  of  the  ex- 
ecuted man’s  election — at  least,  so  it  appeared 
to  me ; and  I listened  with  considerable  curi- 
osity to  the  high  and  hard  divinity  which  both 
sides  brought  to  bear  on  the  subject.  With  that 
skill  in  dogmatic  theology  which  seems  peculiar 
to  the  Scotch  layman,  the  merchant  laid  down 
the  eternal  law  against  the  convicted  sinner  ; 
and  with  weapons  tempered  in  the  same  scholas- 
tic forge,  but  with  no  arrogation  of  superior 
authority,  the  minister  replied  to  his  proposi- 
tions and  refuted  his  arguments.  A theological 
controversy,  particularly  _ when  bearing  on  a 
subject  of  such  public  interest,  would  be  sure  of 
listeners  any  where  in  the  North.  Every  ear 
and  every  eye  was  soon  riveted  on  the  speakers 
except  that  of  Forbes,  who  leant  down  in  his 
corner,  and  entirely  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands.  Being  nearest  the  minister,  I caught 
his  words  most  distinctly,  and  as  he  argued  for 
the  undoubted  predestination  of  M‘Ewen — that 
was  the  unfortunate  man’s  name  — as  far  as 
signs  of ’grace  might  be  discerned  by  human 
judgment, ‘I  ventured  into  the  controversy  with, 
“You  are  thqp  of  opinion,  sir,  that  if  a person 
be  one  of  the  qlect,  his  doings,  good  or  bad,  are 
of  no  consequence?” 

“By  theirfruits  ye  shall  know  them,  young 
man,”  said  the  minister,  gravely,  but  kindly. 

‘ ‘ I hold  in  common  with  the  soundest  divines 
of  our  Presbyterian  Confession,  that  human 
works  are  of  no  avail  to  salvation,  but  only  evi- 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


173 


dences  of  faith  ; that  a child  of  God  may  com- 
mit sin  through  the  corruption  of  his  nature  and 
the  temptations  of  the  enemy.” 

“May  he  commit  murder,  sir?”  I did  not 
mean  to  be'  clever,  but  merely  to  get  the  full  ex- 
tent of  his  doctrine. 

“David  did,  young  man,  commit  murder, 
and  more ; yet  he  was  a child  of  grace,  and  a 
man  after  God’s  own  heart.”  Eorbes  had  been 
sitting  with  a bowed-down,  covered  face,  as  if 
asleep  or  lost  in  his  own  musings,  but  now  he 
looked  up  at  the  old  doctor  with  such  an 
earnest,  hopeful  glance,  and  said,  “ David  was 
forgiven  and  restored,  and  why  not  Andrew 
M‘Ewen  or  any  other  sinner  of  like  sort  ?” 

“Andrew  M‘Ewen  or  any  other  sinner  in 
whom  the  grace  of  repentance  is  evident,  ” said 
the  minister,  with  calm  severity,  and  I thought 
he  looked  Forbes  in  the  face ; “ but  those  great 
and  heinous  sins  which  set'  a flagrant  example 
to  the  world,  give  a triumph  to  the  enemy,  and 
cast  discredit  on  the  church,  are  ordinarily  pun- 
ished in  some  signal  way,  either  by  law  or  Provi- 
dence, on  this  side  of  time,  and  no  man  may 
think  himself  out  of  danger  in  eternity  without 
making  public  confession  and  giving  public  sat- 
isfaction for  the  same.” 

Forbes  made  no  reply.  His  head  had  dropped 
on  his  hands  before  the  minister’s  speech  was 
done,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  time  he  sat  still  and 
close  in  his  corner,  taking  no  opportunity  to  in- 
troduce himself  to  the  reverend  doctor  whom  he 
had  heard  in  his  youth,  and  still  esteemed  so 
highly,  nor  the  slightest  part  in  the  conversa- 
tion, which  gradually  became  less  controversial 
and  more  general,  for,  though  a grave,  we  were 
a social  company.  Our  talk  was  often  inter- 
rupted by  the  accidents  of  the  way,  for  it  was 
a dreary  and  tempestuous  journey.  A fierce 
northeast  wind  blew  right  in  our  teeth,  driving 
before  it  moving  masses  of  snow,  which  soon 
covered  high  road  and  field  with  huge  white 
drifts,  obliterating  the  waymarks,  and  making 
our  progress  grievously  slow.  The  wheels  of 
our  vehicle  stuck  fast  in  hidden  ruts  ; the  horses 
plunged  and  struggled  through  the  snow  with 
the  loss  of  shoes  and  the  breaking  of  traces ; 
there  was  no  help  to  be  had  but  at  the  stages, 
which  seemed  to  lengthen  as  we  got  out  among 
the  moorland  farms  and  pastures  that  stretch 
away  east  of  Glasgow.  There  were  few  trav- 
elers abroad.  The  driver  said  nobody  would 
come  out,  in  such  weather  who  could  help  it ; 
but  we  observed  a post-chaise,  which  seemed  to 
be  keeping  us  in  sight  all  the  way,  though  at  a 
considerable  distance,  and  concluded  it  was  to 
make  sure  of  its  own  track  on  the  high  road; 
the  superior  abilities  of  the  mail-coach  horses 
and  men  being  generally %admitted  in  the  case 
of  snow-storms,  with  which  my  Scotch  com- 
panions seemed  to  my  Southern  ears  singulai’ly 
familiar,  though  they  allowed  that  such  a fall 
did  riot  come  often. 

At  length  the  driver  intimated  his  intention 
of  putting  up  at  Falkirk  for  the  night,  as  he  be- 
lieved that  neither  horse  nor  man  could  get 


through  the  east  country  road.  “Tell  him  to 
put  us  down  at  the  ‘Barley  Sheaf,’  then,  Lu- 
cien.  I would  rather  rest  there  than  in  the 
town,  for  my  head  is  like  to  rend,”  said  Forbes. 
I said  something  about  his  overworking  himself, 
but  he  made  no  answer.  I gave  his  commands, 
and  in  a few  minutes  more,  when  laboring 
through  a heavy  drift,  ^ve  were  all  glad  to  see 
the  spires  and  chimneys  of  Falkirk,  rising  as 
the  old  town  does  from  the  midst  of  level  moor- 
lands, and  seen  dark  and  massive  against  the 
wintry  sky.  Some  minutes  more  and  the  “Bar- 
ley Sheaf”  became  visible.  It  was  a solitary 
house  on  the  roadside,  without  hut  or  hall  in 
sight  of  it,  and  about  half  a mile  from  the  town. 
It  might  have  stood  there  from  the  Pictish  times; 
there  was  such  a look  of  old  and  wreath er-beaten 
strength  about  its  thick  walls  and  heavy  slate 
roof,  I could  well  believe  it  had  been  an  ancient 
tower,  the  house  and  hold  of  an  impoverished 
branch  of  the  noble  Drummonds ; for,  though 
by  no  means  a large  house,  it  was  composed  of 
a centre  and  two  wings,  the  former  rising  to 
three  low  stories,  from  the  high  narrow  windows 
of  which  crossbow  or  arquebuss  might  have  been 
discharged  with  advantage  in  times  of  feud  and 
foray.  That  was  the  original  tower,  while  the 
wings  on  either  side  were  manifestly  modern 
additions,  built  when  more  room  was  wanted, 
and  the  offset  of  the  Drummonds  condescended 
to  keep  an  inn.  Its  sign  waved  and  creaked  in 
the  gusty  wind.  Two  great  oaks  which  shel- 
tered it  in  the  rear  gave  out  deeper  groans  and 
swayed  their  long  branches,  now  swathed  in 
sheets  of  snow.  A young  man  was  opening  a 
passage  through  the  drift  to  its  door  when  the 
Edinburg  mail  drew  op,  and  we  scrambled  out 
with  a friendly  good-evening  to  our  fellow-pas- 
sengers, and  no  small  satisfaction  to  see  the  fire- 
light shining  from  within.  They  did  not  seem 
to  expect  travelers ; but  a very  respectable  wom- 
an in  widow’s  weeds  came  to  the  door  and  wel- 
comed Mr.  Forbes  in  broad  Scotch  as  an  old  and 
valued  customer,  assuring  him  he  was  welcome, 
but  she  was  sorry  he  would  find  the  house  so 
thronged.  It  wras  the  market  night  of  Falkirk, 
and  so  many  farmers  were  storm-stayed  with 
her  she  didn’t  know  where  to  put  them.  “ Nev- 
er mind,  Mrs.  Drummond,”  said  the  banker,  “I 
am  glad  to  find  myself  in  your  house,  and  glad 
to  see  you  well.  My  young  friend  and  I travel- 
ed together,  and  you  will  put  us  up  as  well  as 
you  can.  People  ought  to  be  thankful  for  any 
shelter  on  such  a night.”  Mrs.  Drummond  con- 
curred in  the  pious  sentiment,  said  the  weather 
was  by  ordinary,  and  she  and  her  daughter,  a 
sober-looking  maiden,  with  high  cheek-bones, 
sensible  discourse,  and  a black  gown,  assisted  in 
the  getting  off  of  our  overcoats  and  wrappers  in 
the  narrow  passage,  and  conducted  us  into  the 
parlor,  which  served  as  travelers’  and  common 
sitting  room  on  the  one  side,  while  their  private 
domain,  the  kitchen,  lay  on  the  other.  The 
parlor  was  low-ceiled,  long,  and  wainscoted.  Its 
oak  floor  had  no  carpet.  There  was  neither 
cushioned  chair  nor  sofa  among  its  furniture ; 


174 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


but  the  grate  was  heaped  high  with  the  best 
Scotch  coal,  all  in  one  red  glow.  The  mantel- 
piece was  ornamented  with  the  dark  portraits 
of  two  or  three  ancient  divines,  all  in  Geneva 
gowns ; I know  John  Knox  was  one  of  them. 
There  was  a long  table  in  the  centre,  well  cov- 
ered for  supper,  and  around  sat  the  storm-stayed 
farmers,  some  dozen  str«ng,  damp  and  splashed 
from  the  bad  weather,  and  doubtless  in  a state 
of  hungry  expectation,  but  all  in  good-humor, 
and  looking  very  respectable  of  their  class. 
Forbes  knew  some  of  them  from  former  calls  at 
the  house,  and  their  greetings  were  kind  and 
friendly. 

To  all  inquiries  after  his  health  he  made  the 
customary  reply,  “Quite  well;”  but  when  fairly 
in  the  light  of  fire  and  candle,  for  the  short  dim 
day  had  reached  its  close,  though  the  old  eight- 
day  clock  in  the  corner  pointed  to  four,  I was 
shocked  at  the  change  in  his  appearance  made 
by  that  bitter  journey.  The  man  had  overtaxed 
himself,  and  was  ill  indeed.  He  tried  hard  to 
hold  up ; got  a drink  of  the  landlady’s  own  ale, 
which,  it  seemed,  was  a notable  specific,  and  said 
it  was  only  a headache  he  had  got.  But  when 
the  substantial  supper  was  served,  Forbes  did  it 
no  justice.  He  excused  himself  from  saying 
grace,  to  the  evident  surprise  of  the  landlady. 
By- the -by,  she  presided,  while  her  son  and 
daughter  did  waiter’s  duty.  There  were  no 
other  servants  that  I could  see  in  the  establish- 
ment ; and  while  the  farmers  yet  sat  at  table, 
growing  lively  and  loquacious  over  their  hot 
whisky  punch,  Forbes  requested  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond to  show  him  his  room,  for  nothing  but  a 
good  sleep  would  do  him  good. 

“I  hope  the  young  gentleman  and  you  won’t 
object  to  occupy  one  room,  sir  ?”  said  the  land- 
lady. She  could  speak  very  good  English  when 
it  was  necessary  to  be  so  genteel.  “ I have  but 
one  to  give  you,  and  should  not  have  that  either, 
but  three  of  the  farmers  are  my  own  acquaint- 
ances, and  will  sleep  in  the  parlor.  There  are 
two  good  beds  in  it.  you’ll  remember  the  room ; 
it  is  the  best  one  in  the  tower,  as  we  call  it  yet. 
You  may  hear  the  wind  roaring  there,  but  it 
won’t  shake  the  floor  or  walls.  I have  lit  a 
good  fire,  because  the  night  is  cold  ; and  if  you 
want  any  thing,  just  blow  the  silver  call  you’ll 
find  on  the  mantelpiece.  It  belonged  to  my 
grandfather,”  she  said,  casting  an  explanatory 
glance  at  me,  “ and  suits  this  old  house  better 
than  a bell.”  Forbes  said  he  knew  the  room. 
It  was  as  comfortable  a sleeping-place  as  man 
could  wish.  He  knew  his  friend  would  have  no 
objection  to  share  it  with  him.  I hastened  to 
confirm  the  fact,  mentally  remarking  that  the 
banker  seemed  glad  of  somebody  in  his  room, 
and,  early  as  it  was,  volunteered  to  retire  with 
him,  for  the  odor  of  whisky  and  the  talk  of  tur- 
nips and  black  cattle  were  becoming  powerful 
in  the  parlor.  “If  you  please,  sir,”  said  Mrs. 
Drummond,  laying  her  hard-working  hand  on 
my  shoulder — “ you’ll  excuse  me  sir,  but  nobody, 
except  in  case  of  sickness,  goes  to  bed  in  this 
house  before  the  family  exercise.  Mr.  Forbes 


has  often  conducted  the  worship  for  me.  I had 
hoped  he  would  have  done  so  to-night;  but, 
since  he  is  unwell,  my  mother’s  cousin,  Elder 
Macpherson,  will  officiate,  no  doubt,  to  our  gen- 
eral edification.” 

To  be  commanded  to  sit  up  for  family  prayer 
in  a roadside  inn  was  new  to  my  Southern  ex- 
perience ; but  my  senior  traveler  appeared  to 
think  it  a perfectly  proper  and  untransgressable 
arrangement,  saying  he  had  the  pleasure  of 
hearing  Elder  Macpherson  conduct  the  exer- 
cises some  years  ago,  and  he  had  no  doubt  the 
opportunity  would  be  profitable  to  his  young 
friend.  The  landlady  directly  took  charge  of 
him ; he  bade  me  a kindly  good-night,  said  he 
should  be  better  in  the  morning,  and  I sat  down 
beside  the  redoubted  elder  as  he  afterward 
proved,  was  hospitably  pressed  to  share  his  punch, 
and  made  acquainted  with  his  recollections  of 
hard  winters  and  great  snow-falls  till  the  clock 
struck  eight,  when  the  table  was  cleared,  the 
large  Bible  and  Psalm-book  brought  in,  and 
the  exercise  proceeded  exactly  as  I had  seen  it 
in  Notting  Hill  House.  We  had  the  same  rev- 
erent reading  of  a chapter  in  the  Bible,  a psalm 
of  the  Scotch  version  sung  to  an  old  monotonous 
tune,  and  a long  extemporary  prayer,  inter- 
spersed with  reflections  on  every  event  of  pub- 
lic or  local  interest,  including  the  M‘Ewen  case, 
and  the  uses  of  warning  and  watchfulness  to  be 
drawn  therefrom.  When  we  arose  from  our 
knees,  Mrs.  Drummond  looked  at  me,  the 
stranger,  to  see  if  a suitable  impression  had 
been  made  on  my  Southern  mind,  and  I hope 
the  good  woman  was  satisfied,  for  she  showed 
me  carefully  up  the  narrow  stone  stair,  which 
went  winding  like  a corkscrew  to  the  second 
floor.  “It  was  built  with  the  old  tower,  sir, 
the  middle  part  of  this  house,  about  the  time  of 
Flodden  Field ; it  was  a small  place,  only  two 
rooms  on  every  floor  ; you  are  going  to  the  best 
of  them;  step  in,  sir,”  said  Mrs.  Drummond, 
and  by  a narrow  door  at  the  angle  of  the  stair  I 
entered  a low  but  comfortably  sized  chamber, 
wainscoted  and  uncarpeted,  except  a small  piece 
of  what  our  grandmothers  called  Turkey  in 
front  of  the  fire ; two  windows,  each  in  a corner, 
and  hung  with  blue  stamped  linen,  two  old- 
fashioned  beds,  with  curtains  of  the  same,  set 
against  the  wall,  right  opposite  each  other,  with 
the  fire  blazing  between  them,  lighting  up  a 
long  low  dressing-table,  a very  small  dressing- 
glass,  a shaving  apparatus  fully  displayed,  and  a 
gilt-edged  Bible  bound  in  dark  morocco.  It 
was  a primitive,  antiquated,  but  not  comfortless 
chamber;  every  detail  is  indelibly  impressed  on 
my  memory  from  what  happened  there.  I 
dream  of  it  sometimes  yet,  when  the  winter 
nights  are  long  and  stormy,  though  the  Drum- 
monds are  gone  from  their  ancient  hold  this 
many  a year,  and  the  “Barley  Sheaf”  has  been 
swept  out  of  sight  and  mind  by  the  North  Brit- 
ish Railway. 

Forbes  was  fast  asleep ; he  lay  with  his  face 
to  the  wall,  so  that  I could  not  see  it,  but  his 
breathing  was  deep  and  regular,  and  I took  care 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


175 


not  to  disturb  the  worn-out  man.  No  one  else 
could  have  slept  so  soundly  in  such  a night ; the 
wind  seemed  to  have  become  a hurricane,  and 
was  roaring  in  the  chimney  and  in  the  old  oaks 
outside ; but,  as  the  landlady  said,  it  shook 
neither  floor  nor  walls ; they  had  been  put  to- 
gether in  the  days  of  strong  building ; the  snow 
which  drove  against  the  windows  was  agreeably 
contrasted  with  the  bright  blazing  fire ; I heaped 
it  still  higher  from  a wooden  box,  or  rather  a 
chest  of  coals  conveniently  set  in  the  nearest 
corner,  and  went  to  bed  sincerely  thankful  for 
the  cheer  and  shelter  of  that  lonely  inn.  It  was 
some  time  before  I fell  asleep  ; the  roar  of  the 
wind  and  the  flare  of  the  fire  kept  me  awake, 
though  all  the  house  was  quiet,  and  my  thoughts 
went  back  to  Madame  Palivez,  how  it  fared 
with  her  since  I left  London,  on  what  business 
she  had  sent  Esthers  to  Ireland,  and  what  was 
the  subject  of  that  silent  converse  between  him 
and  Hannah  Clark.  It  might  have  been  those 
musings  that  when  sleep  at  last  stole  on  me 
brought  a suddeni?»dream  of  the  bank  in  Old 
Broad  Street.  I thought  I was  sitting  there  in 
Esthers’  office,  and  Madame  came  in,  looking 
well  and  cheerful,  but  dressed  as  if  for  a journey. 
I saw  Esthers  and  Hannah  Clark,  also  in  trav- 
eling trim,  at  the  open  door,  and  she  told  me 
they  were  going  with  her,  but  I must  remain 
and  look  after  the  business.  It  vexed  me  sorely 
in  my  dream  to  think  that  they  should  be  taken 
and  I left  behind ; but  Madame  talked  kindly 
and  persuasively,  showing  good  reasons,  which 
I could  not  remember  afterward,  for  the  arrange- 
ment. Then  we  shook  hands,  and  parted  in 
great  friendship  ; she  gave  me  special  charges 
regarding  a large  account  between  her  and  Mr. 
Forbes,  which  I had  never  heard  of  before,  but 
was  to  get  settled  as  soon  as  possible,  for  Ma- 
dame thought  it  had  been  lying  too  long.  At 
the  door  she  looked  back,  smiled  on  me,  and 
went  away  into  her  own  private  rooms,  where 
something  had  to  be  done  before  she  set  out. 
I began  to  search  for  Mr.  Forbes’s  account,  and 
was  turning  over  piles  of  books  and  papers, 
when  I heard  Madame  call  me  from  the  far 
back  rooms,  first  in  a lower,  then  in  a louder 
tone,  and  at  last  in  a cry  which  made  me  start 
up  broad  awake. 

It  must  have  been  the  dead  of  night,  for  the 
fire  was  burned  down  to  a heap  of  glowing  em- 
bers. The  storm  without  was  fearful ; but  there 
was  somebody  talking  in  the  room ! I raised 
myself  and  looked  about ; there,  on  the  opposite 
bed,  was  Mr.  Forbes,  sitting  upright ; the  light 
which  rose  from  the  embers  in  fitful  and  sul- 
phurous flashes  played  on  his  white,  ghastly 
face,  but  his  eyes  were  fast  shut,  his  hands  were 
in  strange  convulsive  motion,  and  he  was  speak- 
ing in  a low  but  distinct  tone.  “Killed  — dead 
already,  and  only  got  three  blows ; and  all  the 
money  is  mine  — four  thousand  pounds  in  gold  ; 
that  will  pay  off  old  Reubens,  and  settle  the 
Forbes’  in  Edinburg;  my  own  relations  trying 
to  bring  me  to  ruin,  and  all  for  not  marrying 
old  Willy’s  daughter.  But  the  bank  is  safe  now, 


and  so  am  I ; it  can  never  come  out ; nobody 
knows  he  came  here — oh!  what  made  him 
come  ? but  I am  safe  from  the  Gazette  — from 
the  gallows ; Reubens  will  never  know  who 
forged  his  signature ; I’ll  take  up  the  bill  to- 
morrow. But  murder  comes  out  as  well  as 
forgery ; what  shall  I do  with  the  body  ? down 
under  the  boards  here? — ha,  it’s  not  deep 
enough!  if  I could  get  it  covered  with  clay;” 
and  he  pushed  and  strained  with  his  hands,  as 
if  putting  something  into  a narrow  space.  “ No, 
no,  I can’t  get  it  covered,  and  that  sweet  angel 
face,  all  pale  and  bloody,  will  be  turning  up  to 
me  for  twenty  years  ; they’ll  come  to  dig  here 
for  new  foundations  when  the  old  house  is  taken 
down,  and  find  a skeleton.  The  beautiful  boy 
will  be  only  bones  then  ; it  will  be  in  Saunders  ; 
the  Dublin  people  will  talk  and  wonder  about 
it ; maybe  they  will  mind  that  my  office  was 
here,  but  they  can  prove  nothing.  If  I could 
get  this  horse-pistol  in  — the  blood  and  hair  will 
never  come  off  the  stock.  What  do  you  want, 
Melrose  Morton,  showing  me  that  bag  ? What 
if  La  Touche’s  name  is  in  the  inside  of  it,  and 
the  boy  can’t  be  found  ? I know  nothing  about 
him  or  his  money.  I never  saw  them  ; I don’t 
know  how  that  bag  got  under  the  shelf  in  my 
office.  What  if  I did  pay  old  Reubens  in  gold? 
it’s  none  of  your  business.  You’ll  go  to  Amer- 
ica ? well,  I am  glad  of  it ; but  people  can  come 
back.  You  would  not  bring  your  own  cousin  to 
the  gallows,  I know  that ; but  keep  away,  Mel- 
rose, keep  away;  the  story  will  die  out  — every 
nine  days’  wonder  does.  But  oh,  his  father  and 
mother ! they  will  go  to  ruin,  they’ll  break  their 
hearts,  and  he’ll  be  coming  to  me  night  and 
day ; they  don’t  rest,  these  murdered  people, 
that  we  put  under  floors  and  offices  — he’ll  come 
wherever  I go ; there  is  no  keeping  them  out.” 
Here  there  was  a distinct  but  muffled  sound 
which  seemed  to  come  from  behind  his  bed. 
“What’s  that?”  he  cried,  waking  up  at  once, 
and  his  eyes  opened  on  me  where  I sat  opposite 
him,  fixed  as  very  stone,  and  my  face,  seen  by 
that  lurid  flickering  light,  must  have  told  him 
that  all  was  known  to  me. 


CHA#TESi|  LIV. 

THE  CONFESSION. 

We  sat  and  looked  at  each  other  for  a min- 
ute, while  the  tempest  raged  without,  and  the 
flashing  embers  went  down ; then  he  slowly 
crept  under  the  bedclothes  as  if  to  hide  him- 
self, and  turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  I re- 
member getting  up  with  a mortal  dread  of  be- 
ing left  in  utter  darkness,  getting  my  own  can- 
dle lit,  and  heaping  coals  on  the  fire.  Then  I 
sat  down  and  tried  to  collect  my  thoughts,  for 
they  were  stunned  and  scattered  by  the  sudden 
clearing  up  of  that  long-kept  mystery.  My 
lost  brother’s  fate  was  revealed  at  last  — his 
blood,  the  ruin  of  our  family,  my  father’s  brok- 
en heart,  my  mother’s  shattered  brain,  the  shad- 


176 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


ow  that  had  lain  so  heavily  on  my  own  life, 
pressing  childhood  and  youth  out  of  it,  all  were 
to  be  required  at  the  hands  of  the  Scotch  bank- 
er— the  upright,  pious,  benevolent  man,  whom 
we  and  the  world  had  reckoned  our  best  friend. 
Every  word  he  had  uttered  in  that  retracing  of 


terrible  inclination  to  take  direct  and  immedi- 
ate vengeance  came  over  me.  I could  never 
account  for  why  it  passed  away  at  the  sound 
of  his  voice,  but  it  did,  and  the  man  spoke 
hoarse  and  hollow,  still  keeping  his  face  to  the 
wall. 


his  deadly  and  long-hidden  sin  through  the 
dreams  that  must  have  gone  back  to  it  so  many 
a year,  seemed  burned  into  my  memory.  I 
knew  he  had  done  the  deed,  the  how  and  the 
why  he  did  it,  and  for  one  instant  a strong  and 


“Lucien,  was  I talking  in  my  sleep?” 

“You  were.”  I could  give  no  longer  answer. 
“ And  do  you  know  it  all  ?” 

“ I do.” 

“God’s  will  be  done,”  he  said,  with  a heavy 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


177 


groan,  “for  it  was  His  special  Providence  that 
brought  you  to  share  my  room  this  night,  and 
I,  because  of  my  evil  conscience,  was  glad  of  a 
companion,  not  knowing  that  I spoke  in  my 
sleep  of  that  which  is  always  present  with  me 
by  night  and  day.  And  now,  Lucien,  I submit 
myself  to  your  justice  or  mercy,  whichever  you 
think  good  to  mete  out  to  me.  If  you  accuse 
me  to  the  law,  I will  confess  my  crime  and  suf- 
fer the  penalty — no  man  ever  deserved  it  better ; 
and  yet,  bethink  you,  I have  suffered  a thousand 
executions  all  these  miserable  years  from  a bur- 
dened conscience  and  the  wrath  of  God ; oh, 
Lucien,  they  have  pursued  me  in  poverty  and  in 
wealth,  in  sleeping  and  waking,  and,  but  for  the 
sake  of  my  innocent  child,  I would  have  given 
myself  up  to  justice  long  ago — will  you  bring 
her  to  shame  and  sorrow  now  ?” 

I did  not  answer  him  ; the  sudden  blaze  of 
wrath  over  all  our  ruin  past  had  sunk  into  its 
ashes,  and  wiser,  better  thoughts  came  as  the 
unhappy  man  spoke.  The  deed  was  done  near- 
ly nineteen  years  ago  ; the  ruin  it  had  wrought 
could  not  be  recalled  or  renovated  by  a public 
trial  and  execution.  The  sinner  had  suffered 
for  his  sin,  I knew  that  in  the  very  depths  of  my 
consciousness ; and  his  innocent  daughter,  the 
gentle,  pious,  kindly  Helen,  the  woman  who 
loved  me  with  an  unsought  yet  pure  and  deli- 
cate affection,  she  too  must  be  involved  in  the 
disgrace  and  punishment  of  her  father.  It  may 
be  but  an  imagination,  or  that  the  barrier  which 
divided  my  life  from  that  other  unknown  one 
was  worn  away  and  half  broken  at  this  part,  for 
in  looking  back  it  seems  to  me  that  my  long 
dead  and  buried  brother,  “the  beautiful  boy 
who  was  only  bones  now,”  was  somehow  present. 
His  young  saint-like  face,  so  fair  and  yet  so  no- 
ble, his  kindly,  generous,  peace-making  ways, 
all  rushed  back  upon  my  memory,  pleading  for 
Forbes  and  for  Helen,  and  I felt  that  his  spir- 
it could  rest  without  revenge.  I collected  my 
thoughts,  and  spoke  as  best  I could. 

“Your  life  and  your  character  are  safe  from 
me  ; God  will  judge  between  us,  and  if  you  have 
sincerely  repented,  as  I believe  you  have,  no 
doubt  He  will  forgive ; it  was  a fearful  sin,  and 
fearfully  did  my  family  suffer  by  it;  but  the  past 
is  passed,  and  no  mortal  will  ever  hear  from  me 
a syllable  of  the  fact ; but  tell  me,  if  you  can, 
did  my  brother  Raymond  come  to  your  officebpr 
did  you  send  for  him  ?” 

“ He  came,  Lucien,  he  came  ; the  poorHBoy 
wanted  to  ask  a question  about  old  Reubens’s 
claim  on  his  father  ; that  Jew  was  my  heaviest 
creditor  too.  Raymond  came  through  Greek 
Alley  from  Castle  Street,  that  is  why  he  was 
last  seen  there.  My  office  was  at  the  back  of 
the  old  house.  I was  alone  in  it,  at  the  fall  of 
the  winter  day,  and  on  the  brink  of  ruin.  No- 
body knew  it,  but  nothing  else  could  have  saved 
me ; oh,  that  I had  not  been  saved  ! But,  Lu- 
cien, there  is  a devil,  let  infidels  say' what  they 
will,”  and  the  miserable  man  cowered  down  in 
his  bed  ; “it  was  he  that  said — not  with  an  au- 
dible voice,  but  in  the  ear  of  my  soul,  when 
M 


poor  Raymond  shook  his  bag,  told  me  he  had 
got  four  thousand  pounds  in  good  gold  there,  and 
that  would  float  the  Armagh  bank  over  the  hard 
times  ; the  evil  spirit  said  to  me,  ‘You  are  go- 
ing to  ruin,  and  have  forged  a bill;’  I had  done 
that  the  week  before,  for  I could  not  submit  to 
be  a bankrupt,  and  give  the  Edinburg  house  a 
triumph  over  me  and  my  marriage.  Next  he 
said,  ‘ Tjiere  is  a horse-pistol  in  the  corner,  kept 
to  frighten  thieves,  though  it’s  old,  and  can’t  be 
loaded ; strike  with  the  heavy  stock  of  it,  and 
the  four  thousand  in  gold  will  be  your  own.’ 
Lucien,  I followed  that  counsel,  the  same  that 
brought  our  first  father  to  eat  of  the  forbidden 
tree  ; my  fall  was  also  permitted  by  Eternal 
Wisdom,  and  I struck  three,  but  I think  the 
first  blow  killed  him.  I suppose  the  tempter 
left  me  then,  and  a horrible  remorse,  like  that 
of  Judas,  came  on  me,  but  I could  not  die  like 
him;  maybe  it  was  grace  that  prevented  me, 
for  I think  I had  the  effectual  calling  in  my 
youth,  under  Doctor  Henderson’s  ministry,  be- 
fore the  temptations  of  the  world  and  the  cares 
of  married  life  beset  me.  I buried  him  there, 
by  the  last  light  of  the  winter  day,  in  the  damp 
earth  under  the  flooring ; it  was  terrible  work 
tearing  up  the  boards  and  getting  the  body  in, 
and  I thought  I had  buried  every  thing  with 
him,  but  I forgot  the  bag,  though  I took  the 
money  out  of  it.  Melrose  Morton  found  it  next 
week  in  a corner  of  the  office;  he  was  my  clerk 
then,  and  when  the  report  rose  about  the  boy 
being  missed,  when  his  father  came  to  our  house 
inquiring  for  him,  he  put  one  thing  with  another, 
made  out  what  I had  done,  and  told  me  so, 
like  a brave,  honest  man,  but  also  said  he  would 
never  bring  his  own  cousin  to  the  gallows,  and 
sailed  with  his  old  mother  for  America  by  the  w 
next  packet.  Oh  ! Lucien,”  the  man  seemed 
talking  to  relieve  his  memory,  “nothing  has 
gone  well  with  me  since  then,  and  nothing 
should.  I took  up  the  forged  bill,  paid  old 
Reubens  and  the  Forbes’  of  Edinburg ; nobody 
suspected  me  — nobody  traced  the  boy  to  my 
office  ; I locked  it  up  the  next  vreek  for  being 
damp,  and  took  to  another  room  of  the  old 
house  ; the  hard  times  passed,  my  bank  floated, 
and  I got  well  established,  but  there  was  your 
father’s  ruin  and  last  sickness,  there  was  your 
mother’s  loss  of  reason.  Lucien,  I think  she 
did  see  the  boy  that  night  in  autumn  ; and  my 
wife,  she  was  a discreet,  God-fearing  woman, 
too  good  for  me  if  I had  been  twice  a Forbes, 
though  they  did  worse  than  cast  me  off  for  mar- 
rying her,  lending  on  high  interest,  and  always 
speering  and  waiting  for  my  downcome.  She 
guessed,  I know  not  how  it  was  revealed  to  her, 
but  she  did  guess,  and  the  thought  struck  her 
to  the  heart.  Maybe  I was  not  the  same  she 
had  known  me  ; great  and  grievous  sins  make 
a man  different  to  his  nearest ; yet  I loved  her 
to  the  last ; but  the  Lord  made  it  part  of  my 
punishment  that  she  should  pine  in  a decline 
with  that  fearful  guess,  and  die,  warning  me  to 
repent  with  her  last  breath — she  never  spoke 
of  it  till  then.  In  the  same  winter  my  two 


178 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


boys  were  taken  from  me  by  a sudden  visitation 
of  the  scarlet  fever,  and  ever  since  I have  been  a 
miserable,  restless,  gathering  sinner,  heaping  up 
wealth  that  brought  no  blessing  with  it,  trying 
to  make  amends  to  the  family  I had  wronged  so 
sorely,  and  hiding  my  deadly  secret  for  the  sake 
of  my  daughter  and  the  honorable  family  I had 
come  of.  Lucien,  you  have  listened  to  me  so 
far  ; let  me  tell  you  one  thing  more,  and  think 
of  it  as  you  may.  You  were  the  boy’s  last  and 
only  brother,  and  I had  a notion  that  it  might 
make  matters  up  in  this  world  if  I left  all  my 
gatherings  between  you  and  Helen  ; she  is  in- 
nocent of  all  knowledge,  all  guess  at  the  crime ; 
she  was  a lisping  child  when  it  was  committed ; 
she  is  good  as  ever  a daughter  of  fallen  Adam 
was  or  can  be,  and  it  was  my  hope  that  you  nor  no 
mortal  man  might  ever  know  her  father  to  have 
been  a murderer — ay,  Lucien,  that’s  the  right 
word — that  she  might  look  on  you,  and  you  on 
her,  with  an  honest,  unchecked  affection,  and  be 
happy  together  when  I and  my  sin  were  gone.” 

He  ceased  ; and  the  fire  I had  heaped  so  high 
sent  up  a broad,  bright  column,  like  the  flame 
of  some  new-lit  hearth  by  which  no  sin  or  sor- 
row had  been  spoken.  I felt  that  there  were 
such  happy  hearths,  which  good  women’s  pres- 
ence and  children’s  play  made  fair  and  homely, 
but  I was  bound  on  that  deadly  service  to  Ma- 
dame Palivez. 

“ I shall  never  be  happy  with  any  one” — it 
■was  spoken  in  sullen  sadness — “ my  family  were 
unfortunate,  and  so  am  I.  Your  daughter  would 
be  too  good  for  a better  man.” 

“But  you  don’t  care  for  her,”  interrupted 
Eorbes;  “you  are  taken  up  with  the  Greek 
lady,  and  you  couldn’t  think  of  marrying  the 
daughter  of  a man  whose  hands  were  stained 
with  your  brother’s  blood.  You  are  right,  lad, 
you  are  right ; the  whole  world  would  say  so. 
Yet  my  girl,  my  Helen,  is  as  innocent  as  the  child 
unborn.  I have  willed  all  I am  worth,  house 
‘and  land,  bank-stock  and  business,  equally  to 
her  and  you.  I know  you  will  do  her  justice, 
Lucien,  and  don’t  break  the  lassie’s  heart  by 
letting  her  know  of  her  father’s  sin.” 

“I  want  no  share  of  your  property,  Mr. 
Forbes,  and  as  I have  already  promised,  none 
living,  much  less  your  daughter,  shall  ever  hear 
what  has  passed  between  us  this  night.” 

“Keep  that  promise,  lad  ; keep  it,  if  you  can  ; 
thereby  you  will  obtain  the  blessing  of  the  mer- 
ciful, who  shall  obtain  mercy.  You’ll  want  that 
some  day  as  well  as  I ; we  are  all  children  of 
wrath,  though  my  sin  is  most  like  scarlet. 
What  is  that  ?”  he  cried,  starting  up,  as  the 
muffled  sound  again  came  from  behind  the  bed. 
“I  have  heard  that  noise  a dozen  times  through 
the  night;  it  is  like  some  one  moving  under- 
ground.” 

With  a vague  superstitious  terror  creeping 
over  me,  I caught  up  my  own  candle,  looked 
about  and  under  the  bed ; there  was  nothing 
there,  and  no  room  for  any  thing  between  it 
and  the  wall,  which  the  linen  curtains  covered. 

“I  know  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen,”  said 


Forbes;  “ that  noise  was  not  earthly;  it  is  not 
the  boy,  for  he  is  with  the  blessed — though  once 
I thought  I saw  him  come  into  your  room  with 
a flash  of  lightning;  maybe  it  was  in  conscience’s 
looking-glass.  But  the  soundest  divines  have 
held  that  evil  spirits  get  power  to  molest  hein- 
ous sinners.  I know  they  have  been  at  work 
about  me  many  a time.  Your  aunt,  Miss  Livy, 
guessed  something  of  that ; she  is  dead  and 
gone,  and  I am  going,  and  what  is  to  become 
of  my  poor  soul  ?” 

“You’ll  have  time  enough  to  think  of  that,” 
said  I,  not  knowing  what  better  to  say. 

“The  longest  time  would  be  too  little,  Lu- 
cien, and  mine  is  growing  short.  It  is  my  be- 
lief I shall  never  leave  this  inn.  I thought  so 
when  we  first  saw  it  through  the  nightfall  and 
the  snow,  and  God’s  will  be  done,  if  I can  get 
peace  and  pardon.  You  have  given  me  both, 
as  far  as  man  could.  I know  it  was  sincerely 
done,  lad,  though  you  look  so  sad  and  sober ,• 
and  no  wonder,  after  such  a tale.”  He  was 
looking  me  in  the  face  now,  calmly  and  kindly, 
as  he  used  to  look  when  I sat  at  his  table  beside 
Helen,  and  suspected  nothing  ; and  the  memory 
of  that  long,  close  friendship  drew  us  together, 
in  spite  of  the  horrible  secret  it  had  grown  over. 
He  had  b*een  tempted,  and  sinned  against  me 
and  mine.  I,  too,  was  entangled  in  other 
meshes.  And  the  woman  who  led  me  into 
them,  how  wisely  had  she  spoken  of  his  case, 
without  knowing  it,  except  by  a sort  of  divina- 
tion, which  I think  she  had  from  nature ; how 
wisely  of  her  own  also,  and  how  near  they  came 
in  thought,  to  seem  so  far  divided ! His  ene- 
my of  souls  was  but  her  relentless  fate,  and  we 
were  all  its  unlucky  subjects.  I suppose  my 
look  told  him  something  of  my  thoughts,  for  he 
held  out  his  hand,  and  said,  “Lucien,  give  me 
yours,  and  make  me  sure  that  you  forgive  me, 
and  will  shield  my  child  from  the  sorrow  and 
the  shame  of  my  ill  doing.  Say  that  you  are 
friends  with  me,  for  all  that’s  come  and  gone.” 

“ I am,  Mr.  Forbes,  and  I’ll  stand  by  Helen, 
if  she  ever  wants  my  help,  in  spite  of  the  world.” 
I clasped  his  thin  hand  as  I spoke ; the  dark 
stain  on  it  had  been  washed  out  by  suffering, 
and  I knew  that  Raymond  would  have  done  so ; 
his  fair  face  seemed  to  smile  upon  me  from  far- 
off  childhood,  as  if  all  the  intervening  years  had 
bean  but  a troubled  dream.  Forbes  said  noth- 
irm  ;but  the  large  tears  rolled  down  his  wan 
fare  till  he  withdrew  his  hand  and  dashed  them 
away.  We  were  both  silent  for  a minute  or 
two ; the  storm  without  had  fallen  away  to  long 
moaning  gusts,  which  sighed  over  the  moorlands 
and  made  the  old  trees  groan. 

“It  is  a dreary  night,”  said  the  banker,  at 
last.  “Through  many  a one  of  the  kind  have 
I wished  for  morning;  but  my  days  and  nights 
are  drawing  to  an  end  ; yes,  Lucien,  I am  go- 
ing, and  it  were  better  so,  if  I could  go  in 
peace ; I can  and  should  think  of  nothing  else 
now.  We’ll  speak  as  we  did  in  former  times, 
before  all  this  was  known  to  you.  I can’t  go 
without  saying  farewell  to  Helen,  yet  I would 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


179 


not  bring  her  here  to  alarm  the  lass,  except 
there  were  real  danger,  and  then  you’ll  bring 
her  to  me ; I thought  you  would  when  I found 
myself  getting  worse  in  Glasgow,  and  wrote  this 
slip.”  He  pulled  a pocket-book  I had  often 
seen  with  him  from  under  his  pillow.  There 
were  notes  and  letters  there.  The  Scotch  bank- 
er was  cautious  and  careful  to  the  last.  ‘ 4 You’ll 
take  charge  of  it,”  he  said,  handing  me  a slip 
of  paper,  which  only  contained  the  words,  in  his 
own  strongly-marked  handwriting,  “Dear  Hel- 
en, accompany  the  bearer  at  once,  and  come 
to  your  loving  father — Archibald  Eorbes.” 
“You’ll  go  for  her  when  the  doctor  says  there  is 
danger  ? I’ll  send  for  a doctor  as  soon  as  the 
morning  comes.  We  are  bound  to  take  all  law- 
ful means,  but  chief  of  all  I wish  to  see  that 
sound  and  godly  Doctor  Henderson.  It  is  an 
orthodox  and  noble  doctrine  that  which  he 
maintained  so  well  in  his  sermon  last  Sabbath, 
that  the  elect  can  never  fall  from  grace.  I 
think  I had  evidence  of  election  once,  but  his 
insisting  on  public  confession  and  satisfaction 
troubles  me  on  account  of  my  daughter  and  my 
honorable  family.” 

I tried  to  persuade  him  to  compose  himself 
and  get  some  rest,  promising  to  summon  the 
doctors,  temporal  and  spiritual,  to  his  aid,  as 
soon  as  the  daylight  and  the  snow  permitted. 
But  the  man’s  mind,  strong  and  enduring  as  it 
was  by  nature,  seemed  unhinged  by  its  inward 
strife  ; the  terrors  of  the  world  to  come  had  tak- 
en possession  of  him,  and  his  thoughts  wander- 
ed restlessly  through  tlie  whole  Westminster 
Confession,  clutching  now  at  one,  now  at  anoth- 
er hold  of  Calvinistic  hope  or  consolation.  For 
myself,  I was  fairly  worn  out ; the  solution  of 
my  life’s  problem  had  come  so  late  and  so 
strangely,  my  own  prospects  were  so.  hopelessly 
involved  in  a service  nearly  as  dark,  that  the 
past  and  the  present  were  equally  indifferent  to 
me — my  whole  world  looked  black  and  hopeless; 
and  with  that  last  and  dreariest  consolation  of 
philosophy,  that  things  would  be  all  the  same  a 
hundred  vears  hence,  I threw  myself  on  my  bed 
and  fell  fast  asleep.  The  last  1 saw  of  Forbes 
he  had  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  and  was  re- 
peating a psalm  to  himself ; but  a noise  in  the 
room  woke  me  up  when  the  dim  daylight  was 
creeping  through  our  linen-curtained  windows, 
and  there  he  was,  putting  on  his  clgthes,  but 
white  as  the  sheets,  and  trembling  in  every.limb. 

“ You  don’t  look  well,”* I said  ; “ why  do  you 
rise  so  early  ?”  * 

“Oh,  I must  go  by  the  Belfast  coach,  and 
give  La  Touche  the  four  thousand.  It  will 
keep  him  from  looking  for  his  son.” 

I saw  that  partial  delirium  had  come  on  the 
overwrought  brain,  and  with  great  difficulty 
persuaded  him  to  go  back  to  bed,  while  I dress- 
ed myself  and  went  down  stairs,  for  the  active 
household  were  already  up  and  at  work.  My 
first  step  was  to  take  Mrs.  Drummond  into  con- 
fidence. She  knew  Forbes  as  a frequent  and 
much-respected  guest,  and  when  I told  her  that 
his  health  had  been  impaired  by  over-attention 


to  business,  that  he  had  mighty  concerns  on  his 
mind — bank  ones,  I took  care  to  indicate — that 
he  had  gone  beyond  his  strength  in  the  journey 
and  bad  weather,  and  was  now  fever; sh  and 
talking  strangely,  the  woman  at  once  assured 
me  that  she  expected  nothing  else  from  the 
gentleman’s  appearance.  He  didn’t  look  like 
himself  at  all.  Elder  Macpherson  had  remark- 
ed that  there  seemed  to  be  some  providential 
crook  in  his  lot,  but  trying  dispensations  were 
sent  at  times  to  the  best  of  men. 

I wanted  to  go  directly  to  Falkirk  for  a doc- 
tor, and  had  taken  down  my  great-coat  from  its 
peg  in  the  passage,  and  put  the  slip  of  paper  for 
Helen  carefully  in  its  breast  pocket  that  it  might 
be  ready  against  the  medical  report,  which 
would  probably  send  me  southward,  for  the  im- 
pression had  grown  on  me  that  Forbes’s  time 
would  not  be  long  ; but  Mrs.  Drummond  would 
not  hear  of  my  venturing  out  in  the  snow.  She 
said  the  drift  was  deep  enough  to  bury  houses 
in  the  hollows ; that  I was  a Southerner,  and 
not  acquainted  with  the  road.  She  would  not 
risk  the  credit  of  her  hoqse  by  letting  any  stran- 
ger go  out  in  such  a morning.  Her  son  Tom 
would  go  when  the  day  got  clearer ; he  knew 
every  step  of  the  way,  and  was  accustomed  to 
snow-drifts;  in  the  mean  time,  she  would  look 
after  Mr.  Forbes  herself.  It  was  her  duty,  and 
Providence  had  pleased  to  make  her  well  ac- 
quainted with  sickness  and  trouble.  I had  to 
resign.  The  outdoor  prospect  was  indeed  per- 
ilous to  unaccustomed  eyes.  Though  the  wind 
had  gradually  lulled,  all  round  the  house  was 
’one  wide  waste  of  snow  piled  high  enough  to 
cover  the  lower  windows,  and  leaving  no  trace 
of  road  or  fence  as  far  as  one  could  see.  It  was 
my  first  acquaintance  with  Scotch  snow-storms, 
and  I believe  was  chronicled  as  one  of  unusual 
severity  among  east  country  travelers  and  sheep- 
farmers.  Mrs.  Drummond  was  as  good  as  her 
word ; she  did  every  thing  hp  her  power  for  the 
poor  banker.  He;,  continued  feverish  and  half 
delirious  for  the*rest  of  the  day.  Elder  Mac- 
pherson prayed  and  read  the  Bible  with  him. 
They  all  agreed  that  his  spirit  was  troubled  on 
account  of  sin ; but  those  pious  people  consid- 
ered that  a most  promising  sign  of  one’s  spirit- 
ual condition,  and  I hinted  to  them  that  in  his 
excited  state  he  talked  wildly  and  charged  him- 
self with  things  he  had  not  done.  Perhaps  that 
precaution  was  unnecessary.  Forbes  could  and 
did  keep  his  own  secret ; but  nobody  could 
leave  the  house  to  find  the  doctor  or  minister 
for  him  till  late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the 
snow  was  pronounced  to  be  getting  hard,  for  a 
stiff  frost  had  set  in,  and  the  widow’s  son  ven- 
tured out,  accompanied  by  two  of  the  storm- 
stayed  farmers,  with  poles  and  shovels.  They 
brought  back  a Falkirk  doctor  of  great  repute. 
It  was  probably  his  professional  cue  to  make 
light  of  cases  in  general.  He  certainly  did  so 
of  the  banker’s,  assuring  us  there  was  no  dan- 
ger; that  all  he  wanted  was  rest,  quiet,  and  a 
draught,  which  he  would  send  him,  if  his  boy 
could  get  through  the  snow  that  evening.  The 


180 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


boy  couldn’t  get  through,  and  Eorbes  passed 
another  restless,  feverish  night : but  spiritual 
concerns  entirely  occupied  his  mind.  Having 
once  made  confession  of  his  deed  to  me,  he 
never  again  referred  to  it,  except  in  his  deliri- 
ous moments,  when  he  talked  the  matter  over 
with  Melrose  Morton,  and  sometimes  with  my 
poor  lost  brother  himself,  always  insisting  that 
he  was  not  guilty  of  the  fact.  Next  day  he 
was  quiet.  The  draught  did  not  come  till  late 
in  the  evening,  and  was  to  work  wonders  ; but- 
it  did  not.  A low  fever  had  evidently  set  in, 
which  partly  affected  the  man’s  brain,  because 
it  had  been  over-strained  and  weakened,  and  in- 
tervals of  wandering  and  quiet  succeeded  each 
other. 

On  the  third  day  the  doctor  ceased  to  make 
light  of  it,  and  told  me,  as  the  nearest  friend  of 
the  sick  traveler,  that  his  strength  was  too  far 
exhausted,  and  if  he  had  any  worldly  affairs  to 
settle,  it  had  better  be  done.  It  was  late  in  the 
afternoon  when  he  pleased  to  tell  me.  The 
frost  had  continued  and  increased,  the  road  had 
been  cleared  sufficiently  for  the  mails  to  com- 
mence running  ; the  old  minister,  who  lived 
two  miles  out  in  the  country,  had  sent  word  that 
he  would  come,  if  Providence  and  the  weather 
permitted,  to  see  his  early  parishioner  on  the 
following  day ; and  with  an  anxious  feeling  that 
there  was  no  time  to  lose,  I wanted  to  set  forth 
southward  for  Helen.  To  attempt  traveling  by 
mail  or  stage-coach  would  have  been  a tedious 
business.  There  was  not  a post-chaise  kept  at 
the  “ Barley  Sheaf,”  but  the  establishment  had, 
for  special  uses,  a light,  strong  gig,  and  a horse 
shod  for  the  frost,  in  which,  after  consultation 
with  Mrs.  Drummond  and  her  son,  I determined 
to  proceed  as  far  as  the  English  border,  where, 
by  all  accounts,  the  roads  were  clearer  and  the 
snow  less.  Ther^  was  a splendid  moonlight 
night  coming  on.  Tom,  the  widow’s ’son,  of- 
fered to  go  with  njp  as  far  as  Glasgow  by  way 
of  guide,  for  the  west  couigiry  route  was  pre- 
ferred as  most  practicable,  and  though  every 
body  tried  to  persuade  me  that  there  was  no 
occasion  for  such  haste,  an  impulse  which  I 
could  not  define  then,  nor  account  for  since, 
urged  me  to  take  the  road.  Eorbes  had  been 
low  and  quiet  all.  that  day.  When  fairly  equip- 
ped for  the  journey,  I went  up  to  bid  him  good- 
by,  but  he  was  sleeping  so  soundly  that  my  en- 
trance did  not  awake  him.  I paused  for  a mo- 
ment beside  the  bed  ; the  worn  face  still  so 
strongly  marked  and  manly,  the  black  abundant 
hair  turning  so  fast  to  gray,  told  much  of  sorrow 
and  suffering,  but  nothing  of  sin.  No  man 
could  have  believed  the  tale  who  had  not  heard 
it  from  his  own  lips.  He  was  breathing  freely, 
and  was  not  in  immediate  danger ; yet  as  I 
stood  there  it  seemed  to  me  that  Forbes’s 
troubles  were  all  over,  and  his  wretched  secret 
was  left  with  himself.  I was  turning  away,  not 
to  break  up  that  sound  and  grateful  sleep,  when 
he  opened  his  eyes,  looked  up  and  said,  “You 
are  going  to  bring  Helen  to  me  ; the  doctor 
thinks  I am  in  danger,  then?” 


“No,  not  exactly  in  danger,”  said  I;  “but 
you  would  like  to  see  your  daughter,  and  the 
roads  are  fit  for  traveling.  Doctor  Henderson 
will  come  to  see  you  to-morrow.  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond will  take  every  care  of  you.  I will  post 
as  quick  as  I can,  and  Helen  will  come  at  once 
when  she  sees  your  warrant.”  I put  my  hand 
in  my  breast  pocket  as  I spoke ; the  paper  was 
not  there.  How  could  it  have  drooped  out  ? 

“Never  mind,  lad,”  said  Forbes.  “Helen 
will  come  on  your  own  word.  She  would  go 
with  you  any  where ; and  so  she  might ; man 
or  woman  never  heard  a falsehood  from  your 
lips,  or  I am  mistaken,  and  where  there  is  truth 
there  is  safety.  It  is  not  worth  while  to  write, 
and  my  hand  would  tremble  ^so,  it  would  fright- 
en the  lass.  Bring  her  to  me,  Lucien  ! I could 
not  close  my  eyes  in  peace  without  seeing  her. 
Good-by,  and  God  bless  you !”  and  he  wrung 
my  hand  with  more  strength  than  I thought  he 
had  : “if  we  never  meet  again,  you  will  keep 
your  promise  to  me  and  mine,  and  get  the  last 
prayer  of  a poor  and  heavy-laden  sinner.” 

I told  him  my  hope  of  seeing  him  again,  and 
of  his  ultimate  recovery.  They  were  words  of. 
course,  but  I was  in  haste  to  be  gone.  He 
merely  said,  “No,  lad,  there  is  no  recovery  in 
this  world  for  me,”  closed  his  eyes  again,  and 
turned  his  face  to  the  wall.  Down  stairs  I 
found  my  traveling  companion,  Tom,  in  active 
preparation  for  the  journey.  He  knew  every 
cross-cut  and  short  way  of  the  east  and  west 
country,  valued  neither  wind  nor  weather,  but 
never  set  forth  without  proper  precautions,  for 
Tom  was  a sober,  cautious,  and  very  honest 
Scotchman.  He  proved  a worthy  friend  and 
ally  to  me  on  that  same  adventure,  though  I 
thought  his  examination  and  securing  of  our 
traveling  apparatus  somewhat  tedious. 

“It’s  a bonny  night,”  said  Mrs.  Drummond, 
who  had  come  close  to  my  side  at  the  open  door 
to  speak  of  the  banker,  whom  I solemnly  com- 
mitted to  her  care ; she  promised  every  thing, 
and  I knew  she  would  perform  it : “ it’s  a bon- 
ny night.”  Well  might  the  good  woman  say  so 
as  she  looked  out  on  the  sea  of  silvery  moon- 
light that  filled  the  clear  cold  air,  and  glittered 
on  the  frozen  ground.  “I  don’t  wonder  you 
like  to  set  out,  sir.  It  is  just  Providence  that 
has  sent  such  weather  for  you  to  go  on  an  er- 
rand of  mercy,  as  one  may  say.” 

“Yes,  mother,”  said  her  daughter  Janet, 
coming  to  look  out  loo,  for  the  house  was  slack 
Uhat  evening:  “if  the  gentleman  who  had  the 
other  tower  room  had  waited  for  this,  he  might 
have  got  south  at  once  without  going  to  Fal- 
kirk through  the  snow.” 

“ The  other  tower  room !”  said  I,  as  a recol- 
lection of  the  muffled  sound  behind  Forbes’s 
bed  occurred  to  me  ; “I  thought  you  had  but 
one.  ” 

“No,  sir;  I told  you  we  had  two  the  night 
you  came,”  said  Mrs.  Drummond,  and  she  gave 
her  daughter  a reproving  glance,  which  sent  that 
well-disciplined  young  woman  into  the  kitchen  ; 
“ but  we  had  only  one  for  you  and  Mr.  Forbes, 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


181 


because  the  other  was  occupied  by  a gentleman 
who  came  about  an  hour  after  you.  He  wouldn’t 
go  into  the  parlor,  wishing  to  be  quite  private — 
between  ourselves,  as  I know  you  to  be  a discreet 
person,  being  Mr.  Eorbes’s  friend,  he  had  reasons 
for  not  mixing  with  other  folk,  though  I think  it 
was  over-scrupulousness.  He  didn’t  just  say  it, 
but  as  far  as  I could  understand  what  he  hinted 
to  myself  aside  on  his  first  coming  to  the  house 
— and  no  man  ever  came  in  more  quietly — he 
was  a Southland  relation  of  that  unhappy  man, 
Andrew  M‘Ewen,  and  had  come  to  help  the 
widow  and  family  to  settle  their  affairs  and  get 
out  of  the  neighborhood  ; a trying  dispensation, 
sir,  for  honest,  upright  people  to  have  such  kith 
and  kin ; but  the  works  of  Providence  are  not 
to  be  comprehended.  He  was  so  anxious  to 
be  private  and  out  of  sight  that  nothing  but  a 
chamber  to  himself  would  satisfy  him,  so  I gave 
him  the  other  tower  room  as  the  most  out  of 
the  way.  It  opens  on  the  other  landing.  You 
could  neither  hear  nor  see  each  other.  There 
is  a door  of  communication  between  the  two 
rooms  ; they  were  the  principal  ones  in  the  old 
tower,  you  understand,  but  I locked  it  up  to  keep 
them  warmer  and  more  separate,  and  set  the 
beds  against  it  on  each  side.  I’ll  warrant  you 
never  knew  the  gentleman  was  there  at  all ; he 
went  away  as  quietly  as  he  came  in  the  after- 
noon of  the  next  day.  It  was  providential  that 
Tom  and  the  farmers  went  out  to  get  a doctor 
for  your  friend,  for  they  helped  him  through 
the  snow  to  Falkirk,  from  which  place  he  was 
going  south.  A very  resolute  but  sober  and  se- 
rious gentleman  he  was,  sir,  given  to  study  his 
Bible,  being  much  impressed,  no  doubt,  by  the 
unhappy  case  among  his  kindred.  He  paid  me 
for  my  trouble,  and,  seeing  he  wished  to  be  so 
private,  I would  not  have  mentioned  him  at  all, 
but  young  folk  are  a’  ready.”  I looked  out  at 
the  moonlight,  that  the  worthy  landlady  might 
not  see  the  effect  of  her  disclosures.  The  lock- 
ed-up  door,  and  the  beds  set  against  it  on  each 
side,  explained  the  noise  which  Forbe's  thought 
so  unearthly,  and  which  rather  frightened  me. 
Whoever  the  sober  and  serious  gentleman  that 
slept  in  that  bed  might  be,  he  had  a tolerable 
chance  of  hearing  every  word  that  passed  be- 
tween me  and  the  banker;  but  a relation  of 
Andrew  M‘Ewen,  who  could  not  mix  with  Fal- 
kirk farmers  for  fear  of  recognition,  a Southland 
man  and  a perfect  stranger  too,  would  not  be 
likely  to  repeat  the  tale,  yet  I felt  it  would  have 
been  safer  out  of  his  keeping,  and  set  forth  with 
an  unquiet  mind  concerning  Forbes  and  his 
daughter. 


CHAPTER  LY. 

ESTHERS’  LAST  PLOT. 

The  old  post-roads  north  of  Tweed,  if  more 
primitive  than  those  of  England,  had  also  the 
advantage  of  being  more  numerous.  There 
was  not  a frequented  route  that  had  not  sundry 
highways  and  by-ways ; ancient  travelers  can 


still  trace  them  over  moor  and  hill-side,  through 
glen  and  forest,  in  some  places  diminished  to 
mere  sheep-tracks,  in  some  relapsed  to  the 
heath  and  moss  once  more  ; but  those  acquaint- 
ed with  them  could  get  over  ground  remarkabl}r 
in  ante-railway  times,  and  by  one  such  Tom 
Drummond  brought  me  safe  to  Glasgow,  when 
the  watchmen  were  proclaiming  midnight  in  its 
streets. 

The  solitary  journey  and  social  converse  we 
had  on  the  moonlit  moors  made  good  friends  of 
Tom  and  I.  He  knew  the  errand  on  which  I 
was  bound  ; I had  learned  to  estimate  his  sur- 
prising knowledge  of  by-roads  and  short  cuts, 
and  with  a little  persuasion  he  agreed  to  bear 
me  company  as  far  as  the  border,  otherwise 
Carlisle,  which  was  the  limit  of  Tom’s  traveling 
experience.  In  the  mean  time,  rest  was  neces- 
sary to  us  both,  and  we  repaired  to  the  “ Buck’s 
Head  Hotel,”  which  proved  to  be  a house  in 
correspondence  with  the  “Barley  Sheaf,”  one 
of  the  many  it  could  boast,  great  and  small. 
There  we  were  to  have  a few  hours’  sleep,  start 
with  a fresh  horse  early  in  the  morning,  and 
push  on  through  Lanark  to  Dumfriesshire,  which 
Tom  said,  had  the  best  and  shortest  by-ways  in 
all  Scotland,  and,  with  the  help  «*)f  Providence 
and  steady  driving,  we  would  reach  Carlisle  be- 
fore the  turn  of  the  night. ' I submitted  myself 
entirely  to  his  guidance  ; in  fact,  I Avould  have 
flattered  or  bribed  Tom,  had  either  been  prac- 
ticable, for  the  earnest,  anxious  impulse  to  get 
forward  was  growing  upon  me  every  hour,  not 
so  much  for  Forbes  and  his  daughter’s  sake — I 
should  be  ashamed  so  to  say,  but  it  was  true 
that  they  only  furnished  me  with  an  apology — 
but  Madame  Palivez  filled  my  mind  and  troub- 
led my  sleep  ever  sitice  that  night  when  her  far- 
off  cry  woke  me  up  to  hear  the  banker’s  terrible 
night-talk,  and  learn  the  fate  of  my  long-lost 
brother  ; thoughts  of  her  had  come,  in  spite  of 
the  wonder  and  the  fear  of  that  ghastly  revela- 
tion ; and  still  it  seemed  as  if  my  dream  had 
been  a warning,  and  the  cry  a veritable  call  for 
my  help  or  presence. 

I made  Tom  understand  how  early  we  ought 
to  start  in  the  morning — the  setting  moon  would 
do  as  well  as  the  daylight  in  that  clear  cold 
weather.  He  agreed  to  start  at  six;  I was 
pleading  for  four  as  we  entered  the  still-open 
hotel ; it  was  settling  down  for  the  night ; but 
the  waiter — he  from  Ireland,  who  made  the 
comment  on  Forbes’s  energy  — met  me  as  I 
entered  with  “Your  name  is  Mr.  Lucien  La 
Touche,  sir  ?” 

“ Yes,”  said  I. 

“ I thought  it  was  all  right,”  said  the  waiter. 
“Here  is  a letter  for  you;  a Greek  gentleman 
left  it  yesterday ; he  did  not  leave  his  name, 
and  did  not  stay  a minute,  but  if  you  did  not 
come  here  within  three  days  I was  to  send  it  by 
post  to  the  Palivez’s  Bank,  in  Old  Broad  Street, 
London,  for  the  gentleman  pleased  to  give  it 
into  my  charge.” 

I had  the  letter  out  of  his  fingers  and  opened 
before  his  speech  was  done,  for  it  was  addressed 


182 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


to  me  in  Madame  Palivez’s  handwriting,  and 
was  dated  “ Old  Broad  Street,  November  15th.” 

That  was  the  night  I slept  at  the  “ Barley- 
Sheaf,”  and  heard  the  cry  in  my  dream  ; but 
she  was  well ; the  hand  was  bold  and  clear  as 
ever;  and  I read  on:  “Lucien,  I know  not 
what  makes  me  write  to  you  to-night ; I know 
not  if  my  letter  will  reach  you ; hut  there  is  a 
messenger  from  our  house  going  northward, 
and  I could  trust  him  to  find  you  or  any  body. 
It  is  half  past  eleven — a dark,  cold,  stormy 
night ; but  it  can’t  be  the  weather  that  is  tell- 
ing on  my  spirits ; many  a worse  night  I have 
lived  through  when  the  wind  was  low  and  the 
stars  shining ; but  there  is  an  impression  bn 
my  mind  that  the  last  of  them  is  near,  if  not 
come  to  me.  It  can  not  be  the  eclipse  I dreiSd  ; 
my  thoughts  were  never  as  clear  and  calm;  but 
I wish  you  were  here,  I wish  you  had  not  gone. 
By-the-by,  Esthers  is  gone  from  me  too ; he 
was  not  in  your  place,  and  I do  not  miss  him 
so ; but  he  has  gone  without  cause  or  warning 
— the  first  servant  of  the  Palavezi  that  ever  left 
his  post ; the  old  house  is  coming  down,  you 
perceive,  and  rats  run  from  it.  But  come  back 
to  me,  my  friend,  as  soon  as  you  can;  it  may 
seem  weak  and  childish  to  say  so,  after  letting 
you  go,  but  I never  longed  so  much  to  see  any 
face  as  yours  within  this  hour.  If  the  shadow 
in  which  I stand  is  really  his  of  the  scythe  and 
sand-glass,  and  we  should  never  meet  again  on 
this  side  of  the  clay,  I know  we  shall  some- 
where in  the  after  life,  for  our  souls  are  related, 
and  all  other  kindred  or  connection  is  but  the 
casual  companionship  of  a journey  in  which 
there  is  little  choice  and  much  meeting  through 
necessity.  May  you  be  fortunate  in  that  share 
of  it  which  falls  to  your  lot,  &nd  wise  not  to  de- 
mand too  much  or  build  too  firmly  on  it ! Take 
your  part  out  of  life  as  best  you  may,  reckoning 
it  poor  enough  not  to  be  made  poorer  by  criti- 
cal examination  or  censorship.  Well  that  it 
passes  so  quickly.  I did  not  think  so  once,  but 
I do  now ; an  outlook  to  the  other  sicPe  of  Lethe 
seems  opened  for  me,  and  the  prospect  is  vague, 
but  fair ; I think  the  fates  are  not  in  posses 
sion  still.  Farewell,  my  friend ; I wish  you 
were  here  ; but  sleep  is  creeping  over  my  eyes ; 
it  gets  more  dominant  over  me  as  years  go  on. 
Farewell ! I will  go  to  rest ; hut  come  when  jrou 
can  to  Eusebia  Palivez.” 

She  was  safe  and  well,  not  yet  attacked  by  the 
dreaded  evil.  Her  talk  of  approaching  death 
had  grown  common  of  late ; but  she  wished 
to  see  me,  and  I wished  to  see  her.  “Is  it 
from  the  gentleman’s  daughter,  sir?”  said  hon- 
est Tom,  as  I put  the  letter  in  my  pocket- 
book  and  resumed  pleadings  for  four  in  the 
morning. 

“No,”  said  I,  “it  is  from  the  manager  of  the 
bank,  wanting  me  back  to  business ; we  must 
get  forward  if  possible,  you  see ;”  and  I went 
on  with  my  causes  of  haste,  real  and  manufac- 
tured, all  the  time,  wondering  what  the  said 
manager  had  gone  to  do  in  Ireland  on  his  own 
account,  it  being  evident  that  Madame  had  not 


sent  him.  He  had  shown  Forbes  a paragraph 
in  Saunders's  News  Letter , the  same  that  made 
Melrose  Morton  start  up  from  our  fireside,  and 
which  I could  not  bring  myself  to  ask  the 
banker  about.  Was  it  to  make  out  matters 
regarding  that  subject,  to  fish  up  information, 
to  put  odds  and  ends  together,  and  bring  the 
true  tale  home,  that  Esthers  had  gone  off  to 
Dublin,  and  made  me  believe  he  went  on  the 
business  of  the  house  ? If  so,  my  best  efforts 
would  be  in  vain  to  keep  Helen  out  of  his 
power,  even  if  her  father  were  called  away  be- 
yond the  reach  of  accusation  and  law.  The 
story  of  my  brother’s  fate  would  be  a weapon 
in  his  hand  which  her  sensitive  nature  could 
not  resist  or  fly  from;  it  would  in  some  sort 
enable  him  to  annoy  myself  and  sister  too.  The 
secret  which  had  foiled  such  earnest  search  and 
long  inquiry  was  likely  to  be  made  too  clear 
now  that  it  could  serve  no  good  purpose;  but 
things  must  take  their. course.  I would  do  my 
promised  duty,  and  hasten  back  to  Madame 
Palivez.  Oh  that  some  beneficent  power  might 
send  her  troublesome  manager  to  the  bottom  of 
the  Irish  Sea  in  his  out  or  homeward  voyage,  I 
cared  not  which ! 

Tom  was  won  over  by  my  arguments',  and 
we  started  at  four  next  morning,  with  the  moon 
and  stars  lighting  us  for  many  an  hour,  and 
the  frost  standing  our  friend  in  getting  us  over 
marshy  moors  and  hollows  filled  with  snow- 
drifts. I know  now  that  the  southwest  of  Scot- 
land is  not  all  heath  and  bog,  but  Tom’s  short 
cuts  seemed  to  lie  entirely  in  such  regions ; they 
brought  us  to  no  large  towns,  to  few  villages,  to 
some  poor  and  lonely  inns ; but  he  knew  every 
turn  and  stretch,  could  tell  me  how  many  Scotch 
miles  we  saved  by  avoiding  the  mgre  frequented 
highways,  and  seemed  to  have  friends  and  help- 
ers wherever  horses  were  kept  or  whisky  sold. 
We  got  out  of  Lanark  and  into  Dumfriesshire 
about  Tom’s  dinner-hour,  which  I thought  un- 
fortunate, for  there  was  another  1 1 Barley  Sheaf,  ” 
a house  ol  humbler  pretensions,  but  kept  by 
some  relation  of  his,  in  the  midst  of  a peat 
moss  through  which  our  road  ran,  and  there  he 
would  stop,  horse  and  man,  for  one  full  hour 
— no  small  clipping  out  of  a winter  day.  I am 
sure  Tom  was  perfectly  sober  when  we  started, 
tut  the  by-ways  of  Dumfriesshire  did  not  seem 
so  well  known  to  him,  and,  what  was  worse, 
the  frost  was  relaxing  its  rigor  in  that  southern 
country ; small  showers  of  sleet  came  with  the 
afternoon,  changing  to  rain  as  it  wore  on ; our 
ground  grew  slippery  and  soft,  our  wheels  got 
into  ruts,  and  our  horse  into  mires.  In  short, 
it  was  what  Tom  called  heavy  traveling,  and  our 
progress  was  proportionably  retarded.  Often, 
but  internally,  I cursed  the  peat  moss,  the  “Bar- 
ley Sheaf,”  and  his  dinner  therein,  as  the  cause 
of  all  our  troubles.  But  the  day  went  down  in 
a dim  drizzle,  the  night  came  on  without  moon 
or  star;  it  was  a decided  thaw,  likely  to  be  a 
deluge  too,  and  we  were  laboring  through  the 
bogs  that  slope  down  to  the  Solway  Frith,  the 
deepest  mud  and  the  worst  road  man  ever 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


183 


traveled,  and  still,  by  Tom’s  own  computation,  I 
ten  Scotch  miles  from  Carlisle  Gate. 

“He  is  tired,  poor  beast, ’’.said  the  kindly 
Scot,  as  our  horse  toiled  and  struggled  through 
the  mud,  that  grew  deeper  every  step.  “He 
has  had  heavy  work  since  the  forenoon ; but 
if  we  could  get  to  Springfield,  my  father’s  old 
crony,  Robin  Arm^rong,  would  lend  us  his  Gal- 
loway mare  as  far  as  Carlisle,  and  give  us  good 
entertainment  too.  You  will  have  heard  of 
Robin,  sir,  on  your  travels?  He  is  a man  of 
great  respect  in  Springfield;  keeps  the  inn  and 
the  forge ; and,  being  bailie  of  the  place,  does 
the  particular  business  besides.” 

“What  sort  of  business?”  said  I. 

‘ ‘ Why,  sir,  I thought  you  Southern  gentle- 
men mostly  knew  what  was  transacted  at  Gret- 
na Green ; Springfield  is  near  by  it,  and  gets 
quite  as  many  of  the  folks  that  marry  in  haste.” 

“And  repent  at  leisure,”  said  I. 

“No  doubt  they  do,  sir;  but  I wish  we  could 
get  to  Springfield ; there  are  cousins  of  my 
mother’s  Elder  Macpherson’s  kin,  that  might  be 
helpful  to  us  if  Robin  were  not  at  home,  but  he 
don’t  go  much  abroad  on  account  of  the  comers 
from  England.  I couldn’t  have  mistaken  the 
road,  though  it  looks  a deal  deeper  and  worse 
than  the  last  time  I traveled  it  from  Carlisle 
Tryst,  just  three  years  ago  come  Candlemas.” 
Here  our  horse  gave  one  tremendous  plunge, 
and  stuck  fast,  gig  and  all,  in  a quagmire  which 
crossed  the  road.  We  both  scrambled  out  and 
did  our  best  to  extricate  them,  but  all  in  vain ; 
there  was  no  firm  ground  for  the  horse’s  feet ; 
he  plunged  deeper  every  step  ; we  could  scarce- 
ly find  footing  ourselves  on  the  stray  bits  of 
turf  and  stone.  The  night  was  pitch  dark, 
though  the  rain  had  ceased ; earth  and  air  were 
wrapped  in  one  damp  mist.  Our  muddy,  nar- 
row path  was  bounded  on  each  side  by  high 
banlfs  of  moss,  spongy  and  slippery  from  the 
recent  thaw.  “ Guid  help  us,”  said  Tom,  revert- 
ing to  the  vernacular  in  his  extremity  ; “ we’ll 
hae  to  stop  here  till  daylight,  and  a wet  berth  it 
will  be.”  Stopping  there  till  daylight  was  be- 
yond my  calculations.  I exhorted  him  to  make 
another  effort,  and  Tom  shrunk  from  nothing. 
We  tried  and  tugged,  but  horse  and  gig  stuck 
fast ; I lost  my  footing,  tumbled  into  the  quag- 
mire, struggled  up  again,  and  gained  the  mossy 
bank,  half  drowned  and  very  dirty.  The  foot- 
ing there  was  pretty  good ; I scrambled  up  with 
the  desperate  hope  to  find  some  better  ground 
for  our  weary  night-watch,  but  from  the  top  my 
eye  caught  a twinkling  light  far  down  in  the 
hollow  on  the  other  side ; and  at  the  same  time 
that  heavy  sighing  sound,  which'  onty  the  wind- 
shaken  woods  can  equal,  reached  my  ear,  and 
I knew  that  we  were  near  the  sea.  “It  is  the 
Solway  Frith,”  said  Tom,  catching  it  too  as  he 
scrambled  up  beside  me,  “ and  that  light,  praise 
to  Providence,  is  not  wild-fire  — can’t  you  see 
the  house  down  in  the  hollow?”  I thought  I 
could,  and  started  down  the  bank ; the  ground 
sloped  suddenly,  but  it  was  dry  and  stony,  and 
five  minutes  brought  me  to  a low,  long  thatched 


[ cottage,  standing  alone  in  the  midst  of  that  val- 
ley of  the  moors.  There  was  no  sign  of  life  but 
the  glimmering  light  which  twinkled  from  its 
fast-shut  window,  no  sound  to  be  heard  but  the 
moan  of  the  Solway.  “I  know  the  house,” 
said  Tom,  coming  up  with  a whisper;  “they 
call  it  the  4 Solway  Fisherman,’  an  ill-reputed 
place  for  the  harboring  of  smugglers.  This 
glen  goes  down  to  the  Frith,  you  see,  and  they 
can  bring  up  their  run  cargoes ; it  harbors  the 
worst  of  the  Southern  runaways  too  ; but  I know 
where  we  are,  within  two  miles  of  Springfield, 
and  I know  the  road ; let  us  walk  on ; the  house 
is  no  canny.” 

“Canny  or  not,”  said  I,  “if  they  can  give 
us  a light,  and  help  to  get  out  the  gig,  it  is  all 
we  want ;”  and,  running  up  to  the  door,  I knock- 
ed at  it  with  all  my  might.  There  was  a shuf- 
fling of  feet  and  a sound  of  low  voices  within. 
“There  may  be  smugglers  inside,”  said  Tom  ; 
but  I gave  another  volley  of  knocks,  the  door 
was  opened  a few  inches,  and  a tall,  masculine, 
sour-looking  woman  demanded  what  was  my 
will. 

“ Light  and  help  to  get  a horse  and  gig  out  of 
the  bog  here,”  said  I.  The  words  were  scarce- 
ly uttered  when  there  came  a cry  from  with- 
in— “Help  me,  save  me,  Lucien  La  Touche!” 
and  I knew  the  voice  of  Helen  Forbes.  To 
dash  the  old  woman  aside  and  rush  in  was  the 
work  of  an  instant.  Tom  followed  me,  for  he 
was  stanch.  Within  there  was  a narrow  pas- 
sage, and  at  the  end  of  it  a door,  from  which 
light  shone,  and  people  seemed  to  be  struggling 
within.  I rushed  forward,  but  a man  bounded 
out,  pointed  a pistol  at  me,  and  was  taking  de- 
liberate aim,  when,  in  the  desperation  of  the 
moment,  I flung  myself  upon  him  ; I heard 
the  trigger  click,  but  it  did  not  go  off ; I seized 
his  arm,  and  tried  with  all  my  strength  to  push 
him  back  and  get  into  the  room,  where  I dimly 
saw  two  forms  who  seemed  struggling,  the  one 
to  get  away,  and  the  other  to  detain.  I saw  the 
face  of  my  antagonist  at  the  same  moment  — it 
was  Esthers,  looking  exactly  as  he  had  looked 
at  Forbes’s  family  exercise,  but  not  uttering  a 
sound,  and  evidently  intending  to  shoot  me,  if 
possible.  All  passed  in  less  than  a minute.  I 
heard  Tom’s  exclamations,  and  knew  he  was 
engaged  with  somebody  in  the  passage.  I held 
fast  for  life,  and  tried  to  force  my  enemy  back, 
but  his  strength  was  greater  than  I could  have 
expected.  He  wrenched  his  arm  from  me, 
pointed  the  pistol  once  more  ; but  as  his  fingers 
were  on  the  trigger,  I made  another  clutch,  and 
turned  the  deadly  weapon  from  myself  with- 
out knowing  what  I did ; it  wen£  off  at  the  same 
instant,  and  Esthers  staggered  back  and  dropped 
in  the  corner.  There  was  deep  silence  among 
us  for  a minute,  as  if  every  body  was  stunned* 
but  I heard  him  say  distinctly,  though  it  came 
hissing  through  his  clenched  teeth,  “You  have 
killed  me,  but  I have  taken  revenge  on  yourlady 
in  London.” 


184 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  PALIVEZI. 

There  was  a clamor  of  many  voices  and  a rush 
of  lights ; the  next  moment  the  old  woman  got  in 
between  me  and  Esthers,  an  old  man  came  close 
behind  her ; Tom  ran  to  lift  up  the  fallen,  and 
cried,  “Lord  be  about  us,  he  is  dead!”  but  I 
, was  in  the  room,  and  caught  poor  Helen  as  she 
broke  away  from  the  detaining  woman  and  fell 
fainting  into  my  arms,  while  a perfect  volley 
of  shrieks  from  the  latter  drew  my  eyes  in  that 
direction,  and  I saw  it  was  my  once  prized  and 
promised  Rosanna  Joyce,  otherwise  Mrs.  Barry, 
who  was  going  off  in  powerful  hysterics,  which 
even  then  I knew  to  be  assumed.  My  senses 
were  confused  and  bewildered ; but  there  was 
another  room  half  open,  and  out  of  the  tumult 
I carried  poor  Helen  in,  and  supported  her  in 
my  arms'till  she  opened  her  eyes  and  said,  “ Oh, 
Lucien,  it  was  God  that  sent  you ; he  brought 
me  a paper  from  my  fathef  which  bade  me  go 
with  him,  and  I went,  taking  Rosanna ; I didn’t 
know  she  was  his  confederate.  We  traveled 
post  by  strange  roads,  and  he  was  civil  enough 
till  we  came  here  this  afternoon  on  an  excuse 
to  put  up  from  the  rain ; but  it  is  near  Gretna 
Green,  Lucien,  and  he  wanted  to  make  me 
marry  him,  saying  he  had  found  out  something 
that  would  ruin  my  father  — bring  him  to  the 
gallows,  he  said  ; but  it  couldn’t  have  been  true. 
Rosanna  helped  him,  and  they  threatened ; but 
is  he  dead,  Lucien — is  he  dead?  Have  you 
killed  him?  and  I am  the  cause  of  all.” 

“ Compose  yourself,”  said  I.  Her  brief  but 
clear  account  had  not  only  enlightened,  but 
brought  me  to  cool  judgment  again.  The  tu- 
mult had  by  this  time  subsided ; Rosanna’s 
shrieks  had  ceased,  though  she  still  sat  moaning 
in  the  corner.  Tom,  with  the  help  of  the  old 
man  and  woman — the  only  inhabitants  of  that 
solitary  and  ill-reputed  inn — removed  the  body 
to  a convenient  bedroom,  and  the  young  Scotch- 
man set  off  through  the  dark  night  to  Springfield 
for  a doctor  and  Robin  Armstrong. 

“Robin  is  a bailie,”  he  said.  “ I can  witness, 
and  so  can  all  here,  that  the  shooting  happened 
by  accident;  that  you  had  no  arms  about  you, 
and  only  struggled  to  save  your  own  life.  You’ll 
have  to  appear,  no  doubt ; but  Robin  will  take 
bail  when  he  hears  the  story  from  me.  I think 
the  Macphersons  would  be  sureties  for  you  ; it’s 
a terrible  business ; but  stay  here  till  I come 
back.” 

I assured  Tom  I had  no  intention  of  flying, 
knowing  myself  to  be  guiltless,  and  sat  with 
Helen  talking  and  explaining,  while  the  house 
settled  down  to  the  silence  in  which  I found 
it.  The  old  man  and  woman  quietly  closed  the 
door  upon  the  dead — they  had  witnessed  scenes 
quite  as  strange  in  their  day — and  retired  to  the 
cooking  of  black  puddings  in  their  kitchen, 
which  our  arrival  had  interrupted.  Rosanna, 
getting  no  attention,  subsided  into  real  fright, 
cowered  for  some  time  in  the  same  corner,  then 
rapidly  recovered  her  composure,  and  before 


Tom’s  return  was  looking  and  talking  as  inno- 
cently as  she  used  to  do  when  Charles  Barry 
was  up  stairs  and  I was  kept  below  on  account 
of  Sally’s  fits.  She  didn’t  know  there  was  any 
thing  particular  on  Mr.  Esthers’  mind  when  he 
took  Miss  Forbes  to  Scotland.  She  went  to 
keep  her  company,  and  when  he  talked  about 
Gretna  Green,  how  did  she  know  it  was  not 
made  up  between  them  ? She  hoped  I wouldn’t 
be  the  first  to  blame  her,  after  being  the  cause 
of  all  her  misfortunes  and  poor  Sally’s  illness, 
she  might  say.  I should  have  been  puzzled  how 
to  deal  with  her ; but  Helen,  whose  good  sense 
and  proper  spirit  were  never  found  wanting, 
told  her  to  be  quiet ; she  had  allowed  herself  to 
be  made  an  instrument  in  a wicked  design,  and 
might  have  to  appear  in  a court  of  law,  on  which 
Rosanna  shrank  away  and  made  no  farther 
demonstrations.  For  my  own  part,  I did  not 
clearly  understand  how  Esthers  had  managed 
the  affair,  till  Helen  showed  me  the  identical 
slip  of  paper  which  her  father  had  given  me  in 
our  bedroom  at  the  “ Barley  Sheaf,”  and  which 
had  been  so  unaccountably  lost  out  of  my  great- 
coat pocket.  Then  the  case  was  plain  ; his 
journey  to  Ireland  was  a tale  got  up  to  cover 
his  following  us  to  Scotland.  With  that  strange 
instinct  for  tracing  and  ferreting  out  which  na- 
ture had  conferred  upon  him,  little  to  his  own 
advantage,  Esthers  had  pursued  us  from  stage  to 
stage,  kept  our  coaches  in  view,  stopped  at  our 
inns  without  his  presence  being  ever  suspected, 
so  great  was  the  man’s  ability  for  subterfuge  and 
disguise.  Mr.  Taylor,  from  Manchester,  who 
talked  to  the  chambermaid  in  No.  15,  at  the 
“Buck’s  Head  Hotel,”  in  Glasgow  ; the  post- 
chaise  that  followed  us  through  the  storm  ; the 
relation  of  Andrew  M‘Ewen,  who  wanted  to  be 
private,  and  kept  close  quarters  in  Mrs.  Drum- 
mond’s tower  room,  with  a locked-up  door  and 
a keyhole  between  his  bed  and  that  of  the  bank- 
er, whose  invisible  movements  struck  the  over- 
laden mind  with  superstitious  terror,  while  he 
got  possession  of  a long-hunted  fact  which  put 
the  entire  family  in  his  power ; who  took  his  de- 
parture in  good  time,  despite  the  deep  and  drift- 
ed snow,  and  carried  with  him  the  paper  which 
he  had  probably  seen  me  consign  to  the  pocket 
of  my  great-coat,  from  some  concealing  corner 
of  the  old  house,  and  which  he  knew  would  be 
the  only  and  the  surest  means  of  inducing  Helen 
to  set  out  northward  in  his  company — it  was  all 
clear  and  intelligible : yet  how  had  the  well- 
laid  scheme  been  utterly  foiled  and  frustrated 
by  the  accident  of  Tom’s  delaying  dinner,  our 
gig  sticking  fast  in  the  quagmire,  and  my  own 
determination  to  get  help  from  the  ill-reputed 
inn  ! So  it  was  ordered,  and  so  it  came  to  pass. 
Esthers  had  found  his  own  death  in  his  sudden 
resolution  to  be  avenged  on  me ; sudden  it  must 
have  been,  for  no  human  foresight  could  have 
anticipated  my  coming  to  the  solitary  house  at 
such  an  hour.  By  that  accidental  twist  in  our 
struggle,  the  bullet  from  his  own  pistol  pene- 
trated the  right  side  of  his  chest,  passed  through 
the  lungs,  causing  instantaneous  death,  as  the 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


185 


% 


examining  surgeon  stated.  With  him  the  se- 
cret, condemning  as  it  was,  and  hardly  won, 
by  which  he  intended  to  command  the  Forbes 
family  and  possess  their  riches,  had  gone  down 
to  forgetfulness  and  clay,  for  Esthers  was  not 
the  man  to  confide  such  a weapon  to  any  hand 
but  his  own,  its  use  entirely  depending  on  the 
hold  he  kept  of  it.  The  banker  was  safe,  and 
so  was  his  daughter  ; but  what  did  those  dying 
words  of  the  Jew  mean,  “I  have  taken  revenge 
on  your  lady  in  London  ?”  He  feared  Madame 
Palivez,  but  he  also  hated  her.  I remembered 
his  look  when  leaving  her  saloon  as  I sat  in  the 
concealed  closet.  Madame  was  well  when  she 
wrote  to  me  on  the  15th,  but  oh  for  wings  to 
have  flown  to  London  at  that  moment!  I 
scarcely  heard  poor  Helen’s  thanks  and  praises 
for  my  gallant  haste  to  her  deliverance,  or  deep 
deploring  that  I should  have  been  brought  to  so 
much  trouble  on  her  account ; that  blood  should 
have  been  shed,  and  that  the  unhappy  man 
should  have  passed  to  eternity  without  time  to 
repent  and  turn  from  his  evil  ways.  The  woman 
to  whose  service  I was  bound  by  such  a fatal 
yet  voluntary  vow  stood  still  between  me  and  all 
others. 

Tom  Drummond  returned  in  less  than  two 
hours,  bringing  with  him.  all  the  authorities  of 
Springfield  — the  doctor,  the  minister,  and  the 
renowned  bailie,  Robin  Armstrong.  There  came 
also  two  of  the  Macpherson  kin,  who  were  lead- 
ing men  in  the  place,  and  some  of  Robin’s  people 
to  extricate  the  horse  and  gig,  and  swell  the 
number  of  witnesses.  The  faithful  Scot  had 
raised  his  clan  and  his  acquaintance,  and  at  his 
station  stood  me  in  good  stead  with  the  Spring- 
field  men.  Not  one  of  them  doubted  Tom’s  ac- 
count of  the  transaction,  or  my  innocence  of  in- 
tentional bloodshed.  They  all  went  into  the 
room  and  looked  upon  the  dead.  I went  with 
them, "heard  the  country  surgeon  make  his  state- 
ment regarding  the  cause  of  death,  which  was 
too.  evident  to  require  much  examination,  and 
saw  the  look  of  fierce,  triumphant  hatred,  now 
fixed  forever  on  the  Jew’s  face.  How  like  he 
looked  to  the  ragged  man  when  he  held  the 
bridle-rein,  and  lunged  with  the  knife  ! how  like 
his  sister  Sally,  when  she  leaped  out  from  behind 
the  rose-colored  curtains  — they  were  all  the 
grandchildren  of  that  old  money-grubbing  Reu- 
bens, to  whom  my  father  mortgaged  Widow 
Clark’s  houses,  and  whom  Forbes  paid  with  the 
four  thousand. 

The  Springfield  men  agreed  it  was  a lament- 
able business,  and  then  adjourned  to  the  parlor, 
in  which  Helen  still  sat  as  composed  and  thought- 
ful-looking as  the  minister  himself.  She  gave  a 
clear  and  distinct  account  of  the  whole  affair  to 
the  bailie.  It  was  corroborated  by  every  soul  in 
the  house.  Rosanna  would  swear  to  all  that 
Miss  Forbes  said,  and  was  entirely  innocent  her- 
self. The  old  man  and  woman — by-the-by, 
their  name  was  Christian,  a common  one  on  the 
Scotch  border — though  doubtless  in  Esthers’ 
pay,  had  now  no  reason  to  misrepresent  the 
facts,  and  the  worthy  magistrate  decided  that  my 


part  in  the  transaction  was  purely  accidental ; 
no  man  could  be  blamed  for  standing  on  his  own 
defense,  and  the  pistol  did  not  go  off  in  my 
hands  ; it  was  one  of  the  remarkable  dispensa- 
tions of  Providence.  The  case  being  thus  clear, 
and  every  one  of  us  having  urgent  reasons  for 
quitting  the  place — I for  London,  on  bank  busi- 
ness, of  course ; Helen  to  see  her  father  in  his 
sore  sickness ; Rosanna  in  haste  back  to  her 
husband — I think  she  said  he  was  dying ; and 
Tom  to  return  to  his  widowed  mother  and  the 
“Barley  Sheaf”  — Bailie  Armstrong  took  our 
depositions  in  due  form,  with  all  necessary  ad- 
dresses and  information  regarding  us  and  ours, 
and  bound  us  over  to  appear  w'hen  summoned, 
the  two  Macphersons  beirig  sureties  for  me  at 
Tom’s  request.  They  may  talk  of  Scotch  cau- 
tion, but  it  never  bars  the  claim  of  friendship  or 
kindred : then  the  bailie  took  possession  of  and 
sealed  up  the  effects  of  the  deceased,  contained 
in  a small  portmanteau,  and  inquired  if  the  un- 
fortunate man  had  any  relations  who  might  be 
summoned  to  look  after  his  remains.  I explain- 
ed how  Esthers  had  been  situated  with  regard  to 
relations,  as  far  as  I knew  it,  promising  at  the 
same  time  that  if  his  nearest  connections,  Jere- 
my Joyce  and  Charles  Barry,  did  not  attend  to 
the  matter,  I would  see  his  funeral  properly  con- 
ducted, and  bear  the  expense,  if  necessary.  In 
the  mean  time,  the  corpse  remained  at  the  “ Sol- 
way Fisherman,”  to  await  the  procurator-fiscal’s 
precognition.  The  two  old  Christians  hoped 
that  somebody  would  pay  them  for  their  trouble ; 
they  knew  the  gentleman  had  brought  money 
with  him  in  that  box,  on  which  the  bailie  dis- 
creetly advised  them  to  keep  quiet,  and  their 
claim  would  be  considered  in  proper  time.  He 
also  told  us  that  his  house  in  Springfield  was  at 
our  service,  and  there  was  not  better  ale  to  be 
got  in  Dumfriesshire.  I went  with  him  and  his 
company,  sending  the  two  ladies  in  the  extrica- 
ted gig,  under  Tom’s  escort ; they  were  glad  to 
get  any  where  out  of  the  house  of  death,  and 
Helen  was  anxious  to  speed  on  to  her  father. 

: The  little  village  of  Springfield  had  gone  to  bed, 
for  it  was  near  midnight ; but  Robin’s  house — 
: by-the-by,  it  had  the  sign  of 1 ‘ The  Blacksmith,” 
and  was  a long,  low,  thatched  fabric,  much  like 
s the  one  we  had  left,  only  in  better  condition — 
was  bright  with  fire  and  candle-light  shining 

■ from  all  its  windows.  They  had  heard  of  the 
: accident  there,  and  were  waiting  for  the  bailie  ; 

his  good  wife  took  charge  of  Rosanna  at  my  re- 

■ quest,  to  spare  Helen  her  farther  company. 
Robin  and  his  party  sat  down  in  the  best  parlor 

. to  have  a discreet  glass  and  moralize  on  the 
i lamentable  business.  I parried  their  hospitable 
• invitations  to  join  them,  got  a quiet  room  for 
i Miss  Forbes  and  myself,  where  I explained  to 
; her  my  anxiety  to  get  back  to  London,  and  the 

■ safety  with  which  she  might  proceed  northward 
under  the  conduct  of  honest,  trusty  Tom.  “I 

s know  you  are  anxious  to  see  Madame  Palivez,” 
’ she  said,  with  a slight  quiver  of  the  lips  ; “was 
s it  her  the  unfortunate  man  spoke  of  in  his  last 
moments,  do  you  think?” 


186 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


“I  don’t  know  ; I am  afraid  it  was,  though  I 
can  not  understand  what  he  meant.  That  and 
many  considerations  make  me  wish  to  get  south 
as  quickly  as  possible,  and  I know  you  will  be 
safe  with  Tom.  I would  not  send  any  one  Avith 
you,  Miss  Forbes,  in  whom  I could  not  place  the 
most  perfect  confidence.” 

“I  am  sure  of  that,” said  Helen  ; “get  for- 
ward, and  I will  try  to  do  the  same.” 

I should  have  felt  rebuked  by  her  sad  and 
chagrined  look  at  any  other  time,  but  my  mind 
was  full  of  Old  Broad  Sti’eet  and  its  lady.  I 
took  Tom  Drummond  aside  from  his  moralizing 
friends,  made  him  sensible  of  the  duty  he  had  to 
do  for  me,  for  Miss  Forbes,  and  her  father,  and 
promised  everlasting  friendship  and  gratitude 
for  the  same.  41  I’ll  take  her  to  the  ‘Barley 
Sheaf”  safe  enough,  sir,”  said  the  honest  fellow. 
“I  think  the  weather  is  going  to  be  fine,  and 
we’ll  take  the  high  road.  The  young  lady 
won’t  be  in  such  a hurry  as  you  were,  and  I 
have  asked  Robin  Armstrong  to  lend  you  his 
Galloway  mare — she’ll  go  like  the  wind — and  a 
kind  of  a light  trap  he  has,  and  take  you  to  Car- 
lisle in  time  for  the  night  mail.  It  starts  at 
half  past  one  now,  and  you  won’t  get  to  London 
a quicker  way,  as  there  is  nobody  to  take  you' 
through  the  by-roads  of  England.  I’ll  stop 
here  for  the  night ; so  will  the  young  lady,  I’ll 
warrant.  It  is  a very  decent  house,”  said  Tom, 
in  a whisper  ; “we’ll  start  early  in  the  morning, 
and  get  to  Glasgow  before  nightfall,  with  the 
help  of  Providence  and  Robin’s  Galloway  mare; 
an  hour’s  run  to  Carlisle  is  nothing  to  her.  I 
suppose  that  other  woman  will  be  going  back  to 
England  by  the  Gretna  coach.  She  is  a lass 
one  would  not  care  to  travel  too  far  with  by  all 
accounts  ; but  Robin’s  wife  will  look  after  her. 
Do  come  in,  sir,  and  get  some  refreshment  be- 
fore you  go ; they  are  just  putting  the  mare  in 
the  trap.” 

I spent  little  time  with  Tom  and  his  compan- 
ion. Before  thevdock  struck  twelve  I was  rat- 
tling away  Avith  the  GalloAvay  mare  and  an  ex- 
perienced driver  on  the  Carlisle  road.  The 
night  was  calm,  and  the  moon  was  rising.  The 
road,  though  muddy,  was  not  like  those  we  had 
traversed  on  the  preceding  day,  and  I reached 
the  frontier  town  of  England  in  time  to  get  the 
only  vacant  place  in  the  night  mail  to  London. 
It  Avas  the  quickest  mode  of  traveling  I could 
find ; but  the  miles  seemed  so  long,  and  the 
stoppages  so  many.  Looking  back  on  that 
time  of  suspense  and  anxiety  makes  one  ap- 
preciate the  express  train  and  the  telegraph  of 
these  days.  To  London  ! to  London  ! my  heart 
flew  far  before  the  swiftest  wheels  and  the  best 
blood-horses  which  then  carried  the  northern 
mails.  It  Avould  have  outstripped  any  locomo- 
tion; but  the  journey  was  done  at  last.  We 
reached  St.  Martin’s-le-Grand  in  the  forenoon 
of  a dim  foggy  day,  the  sky  all  mist  and  the 
streets  all  mud,  and  through  them  I sped  to  Old 
Broad  Street.  There  wat  a chaise  going  off, 
and  a number  of  re s p e c t able^i^p king  city  men 
scattering  aAvay  from  the  private  Moor.  What 


could  they  have  been  doing  there?  Another 
look,  and  I saw  a hatchment  over  it.  “ Is  Ma- 
dame at  home?”  I inquired  of  the  porter,  push- 
ing in  as  he  was  about  to  close. 

‘ ‘ Madame  is  at  home  for  evermore,  ” said 
the  Eastern  man,  giving  me  a grave,  stern  look 
from  head  to  foot ; “ she  is  going  to  rest  Avitli 
her  ancestors  in  the  vault  beneath  St.  Nich- 
olas’s Church  in  Kief.  May  her  soul  find 
peace !” 

“ Dead  !”  said  I,  and  the  sight  left  my  eyes 
for  the  moment. 

“Yes,  dead,”  said  the  porter.  “Why  Avas 
the  signor  absent  when  her  trusted  manager 
had  left  his  post  Avithout  leave,  and  the  illus- 
trious, high-born  Eusebia  Palivez — the  last  and 
noblest  of  her  princely  line — was  found  in  her 
OAvn  chamber,  foully  murdered  by  the  mute 
maid  she  had  taken  from  the  signor’s  house?” 

Before  he  had  well  spoken  it,  all  flashed  on 
my  brain  ; the  meaning  of  the  Jew’s  last  words 
— the  meaning  of  his  nightly  conference  Avith 
Hannah  which  I had  the  chance  to  see,  but  did 
not  understand,  or  the  deed  might  have  been 
prevented.  It  may  be  that  my  desperate,  hor- 
rified look  frightened  the  porter,  for  he  stepped 
back,  and  I passed  him,  Avalking  straight  up  to 
the  saloon  where  I had  seen  her  last  rebuking 
Esthers,  to  which  she  had  gone  up  from  me  to 
receive  Prince  Dashlcoff.  Nobody  prevented, 
nobody  noticed  me,  till  I got  into"  the  room  : it 
was  hung  with  black  drapery,  which  covered 
walls  and  Avindows.  In  the  centre  stood  a kind 
of  platform,  also  covered  Avith  black  and  set 
round  with  aaux  candles ; on  it  there  lay  a cof- 
fin covered  with  purple — the  Palivez  color  in  life 
and  death.  It  had  a gold  plate,  Avith  a Greek 
inscription  which  I could  not  read  ; but  I knew 
what  that  coffin  hid  from  me  forever,  and,  scarce 
knoAving  what  I did,  I stepped  into  the  circle  of 
Greek  priests  and  servants  all  in  mourning  dress- 
es, to  a grave,  elderly  man,  Avith  a lawyer’s  face, 
but  a Greek  also,  Avho  was  sealing  a piece  of 
purple  silk  over  its  lock,  while  a priest  in  full 
canonicals  held  the  key. 

“ I Avas  her  friend  in  life.  She  trusted  and 
talked  Avith  me.  For  mercy’s  sake,  let  me  see 
her  face  for  the  last  time !”  an^l  I pressed  nearer. 

“It  can  not  be,  young  man,”  said  the  Greek 
lawyer,  calmly  finishing  his  work — it  was  not 
the  family  crest,  but  a cross  and  crown  he  sealed 
it  with — “it  can  not  be  ; the  face  once  so  fair  is 
covered  to  the  resurrection-day.  Pray  that  you 
may  see  it  then  among  the  just.” 

The  priest  placed  the  key  in  his  hands,  and 
the  entire  circle  sunk  on  their  knees  while  he 
chanted  a short  prayer,  to  which  the  assistant 
priest  responded  in  long-drawn,  dreary  tones, 
till  it  sounded  like  a requiem.  Then  they 
sprinkled  the  coffin  Avith  holy  water,  made  the 
sign  of  the  Greek  cross  seAren  times  upon  it,  ahd 
all  prayed  in  silence  for  the  soul  of  the  dead. 
In  a few  minutes  the  kneeling  circle  rose ; the 
family  crest  and  escutcheon  Avere  brought  in  by 
Old  Marco,  and  the  man  who  had  sealed  the 
coffin  — he  Avas  Cuzenes,  the  jurisconsult,  w!:o 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


187 


lived  and  did  business  in  London  long  after — 
broke  them  over  its  lid,  at  the  same  time  pro- 
claiming in  Greek,  Russian,  and  English  that 
the  last  of  the  Palivezi  was  gone  to  God  and  to 
the  souls  of  all  her  line  in  the  Paradise  of  the 
Patriarchs ; that  none  of  her  name  or  lineage 
now  reniained  on  earth,  and  her  house,  sprung 
from  the  princes  of  Egina,  and  without  blot 
or  stain  for  fifteen  hundred  years,  had  passed 
from  among  the  living.  11  May  their  souls  find 
peace,  and  the  will  of  the  Highest  be  done  !”  he 
added,  and  the  prayer  was  repeated  by  all  the 
circle,  who  immediately  began  to  scatter  away, 
the  whole  ceremonial  being  concluded  ex^pt 
the  funeral  feast,  which,  according  to  Greek  cus- 
tom, was  spread  in  the  rooms'  below. 

I would  have  given  the  world  to  break  that 
seal  and  see  her  face  once  more.  It  was  a fool- 
ish thought,  perhaps,  but  I made  one  last  appeal 
to  Madame  Oniga,  who  was  there  3s  the  chief 
of  the  household.  “ It  can  not  be,  signor,”  she 
said,  “ and  it  should  not.  These  English  had 
to  see  her  according  to  their  law — the  inquest, 
as  they  call  it — may  shame  fall  on  them  ! but 
no  man  shouldllee  the  last  lady  of  the  Palivezi 
with  a gashed  throat  and  a bloody  shroud.  We 
think  it  strange  that  the  signor  should  have  been 
absent.  Was  he  not  her  friend  ?”  The  Russian 
woman  spoke  out  the  thoughts  of  the  entire 
household,  for  every  one  of  them  cast  grave,  re- 
proving looks  on  me,  and  I believe  regarded  me 
with  suspicion  ever  after  for  that  unaccountable 
absence.  I did  not  care  to  justify  myself  then, 
and  have  taken  no  trouble  about  it  since ; but 
as  I turned  away  a sudden  thought  crossed  me. 
“ When  did  it  happen?”  I inquired.  “ On  the 
night  ofy  the  fifteenth  ; we  know  not  at  what 
hour,  nor  how  the  dumb  girl  got  access  to  her 
chamber,  which  Madame  always  locked  in  the 
inside.  It  was  found  open  in  the  morning,  and 
our  noble  mistress  was  dead — slain  in  her  sleep, 
it  seemed — and  when  the  house  was  searched 
for  the  murderer,  blood  was  found  on  the  dumb 
girl’s  clothes,  and  a knife  which  one  of  the 
maids  had  seen  by  chance  in  her  hands,  stained 
in  the  same  fashion  and  hidden  under  her  bed. 
Will  not  the  signor  come  to  the  funeral  feast? 
It  was  the  will  of  God  to  take  our  mistress  so, 
and  none  of  us  may  sorrow  too  much  without 
sin,”  said  Madame  Oniga,  as  I turned  away  once 
more,  feeling  that  my  life  had  fallen  to  ruins, 
and  the  light  of  all  its  summers  lay  sealed  up  in 
that  coffin.  Maybe  it  was  well  that  it  had  been 
sealed,  and  that  Greek  pride  or  prejudice  denied 
me  that  last  look  on  the  face  of  the  dead — there- 
by no  memory  of  blood  or  of  grave-clothes  blends 
with  my  recollection  of  her.  It  is  still  as  I saw 
her  last  up  among  the  hanging  flowers  and  arch- 
ing boughs,  waving  her  white  hand  to  me  in 
careless  freedom  and  flinging  back  the  braids  of 
her  bright  hair.  Her  last  letter  was  written  to 
me  with  the  shadow  of  death  falling  on  her  fear- 
less spirit.  She  had  wished  me  by  her  side, 
trusted  and  believed  in  me,  and  given  me  those 
last  counsels  while  she  stood  on  the  borders  of 
the  grave. 


On  the  night  of  the  fifteenth — on  the  night 
of  the  fearful  storm,  which  had  rocked  the  old 
house  on  the  Falkirk  Moor,  and  made  the  oaks 
about  it  groan  from  their  ancient  hearts — they 
knew  not  at  what  hour ; but  could  it  have  been 
the  very  same  at  which  I saw  her  in  my  dream, 
prepared  for  a far  journey ^ on  which  Hannah 
Clark  and  Esthers  were  to  bear  her  company, 
to  my  vexatioy,  and  heard  her  call  to  me  from 
the  far  back  rooms  so  loudly  and  wildly  that  it 
woke  me  up  to  hear  the  tempest  raging  without 
and  the  conscience-stricken  banker  within  talk- 
ing in  his  sleep  of  my  brother’s  murder?  It 
may  be  superstition,  but  I believe  it  was  her 
death-hour  and  her  voice  that  gave  me  the  sign 
and  brought  me  out  of  sleep,  to  hear  the  revela- 
tion she  had  guessed  at  so  long,  and  I had  once 
suspected  her  of  knowing  too  well.  Life  has 
mysteries  which  run  deep  into  the  invisible 
state,  though  never  to  be  proved  to  common- 
place and  untried  people,  and  that  dream  be- 
came a link  between  her  and  me  which  the 
grave  could  not  break  nor  the  years  wear  away. 
My  mind  has  recovered  from  the  shock  of  that 
day’s  discovery,  but  the  blow  was  heavy  for  the 
time.  It  seems  absurd  to  me  now,  unreasonable, 
and  something  to  be  ashamed  of,  but  it  is  true, 
so  strangely  does  great  and  sudden  grief  affect 
us,  that  I bitterly  regretted  the  evil  chance 
which  canceled  my  vow,  prevented  my  doing 
her  that  last  service,  and  the  sacrifice  of  myself 
to  her  shade.  I have  lived  to  be  thankful  for 
the  fact,  though  not  for  the  manner  of  it ; but 
then  my  reason  and  my  conscience  were  both 
stupefied. 

I turned  away  from  Madame  Oniga  and  the 
funeral  feast.  I could  not  look  again  on  the 
coffin  and  the  wax  candles  around  it,  which 
should  burn  there  night  and  day  till  it  wTas 
moved  into  the  Russian  ship  and  borne  away  to 
Petersburg,  and  thence  over  plain  and  river  to 
the  family  vault  in  Kief.  As  I went  down 
stairs  there  was  somebody  w^ting  for  me.  I 
did  not  notice  her  at  first,  but  it  was  my  sister 
Rhoda — wise  and  noble  girl.  She  said  not  one 
single  word,  but  took  me  by  the  arm,  and  walked 
with  me  some  way  through  the  streets.  Then  I 
saw  Melrose  Morton  was  at  my  other  side,  and 
we  were  going  to  the  old  Greek  coffee-hotise 
in  Finsbury  Pavement.  It  was  silent  and  de- 
serted-looking, exactly  as  I had  seen  it  that 
first  Christmas-day  of  mine  in  London,  when 
Watt  Wilson  told  my  family’s  tale  to  Esthers. 
The  time  was  but  four  years  ago,  and  what  a 
cycle  of  life  I had  passed  through  since  then  ! 

In  the  coffee-house  we  all  sat  down,  and  they 
told  me  every  thing  they  knew  of  the  inquest, 
and  of  Hannah’s  evident  guilt.  The  whole, 
though  corroborated  by  many  additional  circum- 
stances, amounted  only  to  what  I had  already 
heard  from  Madame  Oniga.  My  sister  had 
sent  for  Melrose  as  soon  as  the  news  reached 
her,  and  gone  to  look  after  the  criminal  crea- 
ture with  whom  she  had  held  such  early  com- 
panionship. Rhoda  was  a brave  girl,  and  a 
sensible  one ; but  I think  Hannah’s  deed  gave 


188 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


to  all  her  after  life  a tinge  of  superstitious  ter- 
ror regarding  the  deaf  and  dumb. 

“ I went  before  all  the  gentlemen  and  talked 
to  her ; maybe  it,  was  bold,  but  nobody  else 
could  speak  to  the  creature  at  all;  and,  Lucien, 
she  holds  out  she  didn’t  do  it,  but  that  Madame 
killed  herself,  which  I know,  in  my  own  con- 
science, is  not  true  ; not  to  speak  of  the  signs 
against  her,  and  her  telling  me  that  Esthers 
was  to  he  heir  of  all  Madame ’s  bank  and  riches, 
and  that  he  would  marry  her  and  make  her  a 
lady.  That’s  the  way  the  villain  bribed  her  up 
to  it,  you  see ; women  can  be  got  to  do  any 
thing  for  wicked  men  that  takes  the  right  way 
with  them,”  said  Rhoda  ; “ but  when  she  knows 
that  he  is  dead  and  gone — goodness ! but  the 
works  of  Providence  is  wonderful! — she’ll  own 
it,  maybe;  and  I don’t  think  they’ll  bring  her 
to  the  gallows,  but  just  make  it  out  madness — 
which  it  is,  and  worse.  Poor  misfortunate 
soul,  who  could  ever  have  thought  that  she 
would  do  the  like  ?” 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

CONCLUSION. 

Rhoda’s  predictions  were  realized.  When  the 
news  of  Esthers’  death  was  imparted  to  Hannah, 
she  acknowledged  her  guilt,  with  no  sign  of  re- 
pentance for  the  fact,  and,  strange  to  say,  no 
sorrow  for  him.  It  was  ambition  and  not  love 
that  had  made  her  his  ready  instrument.  Han- 
nah believed  in  his  heirship,  and  in  the  promise 
of  marriage,  which  was  no  doubt  equally  false  ; 
for,  in  selecting  her  to  do  his  wicked  work,  the 
Jew  had  manifestly  calculated  on  an  accomplice 
who  could  not  betray  him,  and  would  be  nei- 
ther understood  nor  credited  if  she  made  the  at- 
tempt. My  sister’s  conjecture  was  right,  too, 
as  regarded  the  law  proceedings.  Our  knowl- 
edge of  the  case,  and  all  the  influence  we  could 
command  being  employed  on  Hannah’s  behalf, 
the  plea  of  insanity  was  accepted  by  judge  and  I 
jury,  and  she  was  kept  in  custody  as  a criminal 
lunatic. 

I had  no  difficulty  in  proving  my  own  inno- 
cence of  Esthers’  death  in  proper  form  and  ac- 
cording to  Scotch  law.  When  all  was  over,  and 
all  inquiries  satisfactorily  closed,  I saw  him  laid 
down  in  Springfield  church-yard,  and  the  Joyces 
somehow  contrived  to  prove  themselves  his  heirs. 

Before  that  business  was  done  the  Scotch  pa- 
pers announced  the  death  of  Mr.  Forbes,  which 
took  place  at  the  “Barley  Sheaf”  one  week 
after  Helen’s  arrival,  and  the  Falkirk  doctors 
could  not  certify  whether  his  disease  was  a slow 
fever  or  rapid  decline.  Doctor  Alexander  Hen- 
derspn,  with  whom  his  conferences  had  been 
long  and  private,  doubtless  knew  it  to  have  been 
a burdened  conscience,  but  the  sound  sense  and 
Christian  prudence  of  the  aged  minister  made 
him  waive  the  subject  of  public  confession  and 
satisfaction  on  account  of  the  living.  He  pray- 
ed by  the  dying  bedside  of  his  early  communi- 
cant, said  he  believed  him  to  be  a sinner  saved, 


as  all  sinners  must  be,  through  free  and  sov- 
ereign grace;  and  in  great  sorrow,  tempered 
with  pious  resignation  and  eternal  hope,  his 
loving  daughter  closed  Forbes’s  eyes,  without 
ever  suspecting  the  sin  that  had  made  them  so 
sad  and  weary.  • 

I had  promised  Forbes  that  none  living  should 
hear  his  crime  from  me,  and  I kept  my  promise 
according  to  common  sense  and  without  casuis- 
try. Melrose  Morton  knew  the  whole  story  ; 
he  had  hastened  northward  in  time  to  see  his 
dying  cousin,  had  talked  with  him  alone,  had 
heard  of  his  confession  to  me,  and  in  the  priva- 
cy oLour  own  home  showed  me  a paragraph  in 
Saundei's's  News  Letter  of  the  31st  of  October. 
It  briefly  stated  that  some  workmen,  while  clear- 
ing away  the  ruins  of  a house  in  Kildare  Street, 
said  to  have  been  the  town  residence  of  the 
Earls  of  Galway,  to  make  room  for  new  stables 
behind  the  “Royal  Hotel,”  had  found  a skeleton 
and  a horse-pistol  beside  it,  buried  under  the 
floor  of  one  of  the  back  rooms.  It  went  on  to 
say  that  an  inquest  had  been  held  the  same  aft- 
ernoon, but  no  inquiry  could  cast  any  light  on 
the  strange  discovery,  except  that  it  was  the 
general  opinion  that  murder  must  have  been 
committed  in  that  house,  but  when  or  by  whom 
it  was  impossible  to  conjecture ; the  coroner 
summed  up,  the  jury  returned  a verdict  accord- 
ingly, and  the  mouldering  .relics  of  humanity 
were  laid  in  St.  Michael’s  church-yard.  We 
both  knew  what  that  paragraph  meant,  and 
whose  bones  they  were  that  the  workmen  had 
found  under  the  floor.  It  was  requisite  for 
many  reasons,  and  chiefly  to  remove  the  sus- 
picions against  Morton,  which  had  crept  into 
’ her  mind,  that  Rhoda  should  know  it  too.  On 
my  sister’s  discretion  and  sound  sense  we  could 
place  implicit  reliance ; she  was  therefore  made 
acquainted  with  the  facts.  They  astonished  fais 
less  than  relieved  her  honest  heart.  She  made 
her  usual  reflections  “ that  the  works  of  Prov- 
idence was  wonderful,  and  who  could  have 
thought  it;  but  it  was  a great  mercy  to  know, 
anyhow.”  Then  Melrose  and  I took  a quiet 
voyage  to  Dublin,  found  out  the  sexton  of  St. 
Michael’s  church,  and  induced  him,  for  a suit- 
able consideration,  to  assist  us  in  privately,  and 
j under  the  shadow  of  night,  removing  the  remains 
of  my  ill-fated  and  long-sought  brother  to  a 
grave  beside  that  of  the  father  to  whom  his  loss 
had  been  so  terrible.  We  did  not  leave  Dublin 
till  both  names  were  engraven  on  the  headstone 
which  Forbes  had  set  up,  and  the  grass  had 
grown  long  about,  and  none  but  the  well-paid 
sexton  and  the  equally  rewarded  stonecutter 
knew  that  the  thing  had  been  done.  When  we 
returned  to  No.  9,  it  was  agreed  between  us 
three  that  the  entire  tale  should  never  be  men- 
tioned or  referred  to,  if  possible,  in  our  after 
years,  and  the  compact  was  faithfully  kept  by  all. 

So  the  banker’s  sin  was  buried  with  the  dead, 
the  sorrow  of  the  Palivez  line  with  the  last  of 
them  ; and  time,  which  covers  graves  with  grass 
and  ruins  with  ivy,  passed  on  and  brought  its 
changes  to  us  as  to  all  the  living. 


THE  HIDDEN  SIN. 


189 


The  Comenzoni,  whep.  they  came  into  posses- 
sion, made  over  to  Helen  Eorbes  and  myself  the 
money,  plate,  and  jewels  bequeathed  to  us  by 
Madame  Palivez.  The  golden  reliquary  was 
not  among  the  latter.  I made  no  inquiry  on 
the  subject,  and  therefore  never  knew  into  what 
hands  it  had  fallen,  or  for  what  purpose  the 
Greek  house  retained  it ; but  all  her  servants, 
except  old  Marco  and  his  wife,  who  went  with 
her  coffin  to  Kief,  remained  in  their  employment. 

I did  not  I’efuse  my  share  of  the  bequest,  but 
Helen  did,  saying  there  must  be  some  mistake  : 
what  could  induce  the  Greek  lady  to  leave  mon- 
ey and  jewels  to  her?  I was  equally  unwilling 
to  accept  the  half  of  her  father’s  property  which 
he  had  willed  to  me.  The  very  unusual  dis- 
pute, as  the  lawyers  called  it,  produced  frequent 
meetings  between  us.  Helen  was  desolate,  and 
so  was  I.  My  sister  would  not  marry  Melrose 
Morton  and  leave  me  alone.  It  was  a pity  to 
keep  them  out  of  their  own,  house  and  home. 
There  was  one  woman  that  loved  me  ; what  if 
she  were  Forbes’s  daughter?  Her  hand  and 
heart  were  unstained  by  the  sin  that  lay  so 
heavy  on  his.  All  that  Madame  Palivez  had 
spoken  in  her  favor — ay,  when  she  vexed  my 
pride  and  folly  by  making  me  over  to  Helen — 
came  up  to  memory.  It  was  like  obeying  Ma- 
dame’s  last  wishes.  Well  it  is  that  every  wom- 
an does  not  know  the  motives  which  make  men 
woo  and  wed ; yet  many  have  been  worse  than 
mine. 

Suffice  it  to  say,  I proposed  to,  and  I married 
Helen  Forbes  on  these  various  accounts.  She 
accepted  me  willingly,  yet  with  womanly  digni- 
ty, and  every  year  of  our  married  life  taught 
me  to  value  more,'  and  profit  by,  her  sterling 
qualities  of  head  and  heart.  The  natural  result 
was  a strong  and  sincere  affection,  founded  on 
esteem,  and  therefore  more  apt  to  stand  the  wear 
of  time  and  trial  than  the  first  romantic  and 
unreasoning  love.  Under  its  influence,  our 
early  differences  in  faith  and  practice,  which 
once  seemed  such  insurmountable  causes  of  di- 


vision, gradually  melted  away.  Helen’s  mind 
got  emancipated  from  its  Puritan  prejudices, 
without  losing  the  sterling  principles  which  gave 
it  stability  and  strength.  I,  after  such  storm  and 
shipwreck  of  my  world  within,  learned  from  her 
fair  example  to  cast  anchor  in  the  same  safe  haven. 

The  tranquil  years  of  man  have  no  history. 
We  lived  calmly  and  happily,  confiding  in  each 
other,  and  easy  in  our  circumstances.  Not  in 
Notting  Hill  House  : the  long  sad  years  of  her 
father’s  unexplained  troubles  made  it  dreary  to 
Helen,  and  the  memory  of  Forbes  and  my  lost 
brother  would  have  given  me  no  rest  in  it.  We 
left  the  mementoes  of  these  things,  and  many 
more,  behind  us  in  London  and  its  neighbor- 
hood, went  northward,  and  bought  a pretty 
country  house  in  the  pleasant  border-land  upon 
the  banks  of  Tweed,  and  not  far  from  the  old 
burgh  of  Melrose,  where  the  Mortons  made  their 
settlement.  There  we  lived  in  peace  and  con- 
tentment, had  two  sons,  who  grew  up  to  be  our 
consolation,  and  are  now  doing  men’s  part  in 
the  world.  But  I am  alone,  for  Helen  was  tak- 
en from  me  two  years  ago ; and  life  has  but  one 
expectation  now,  namely,  to  follow  her.  Mel- 
rose and  my  sister  are  old  people  like  myself, 
with  their  four  children  married  and  settled  in 
different  Scotch  towns ; but  we  are  often  togeth- 
er, and  sometimes  talk  over  that  long  and  weary 
past.  It  is  more  than  forty  years  since  all  the 
romance  and  adventure  of  my  life  came  to  a 
close  beside  the  purple-covered  coffin  that  held 
the  last  of  the  Palavezi.  I have  grown  a better 
and  a wiser  man  since  then,  though  the  lessons 
that  made  me  so  have  been  slowly  and  quietly 
learned.  But  now,  in  the  evening  of  my  days, 
going  peacefully  down  the  hill-side  which  leads 
to  the  valley  of  the  shadow,  with  hopes  that  look 
to  the  breaking  of  a brighter  dawn  beyond,  and 
memory,  the  watcher,  gazing  far  backward  on 
those  luckless  years  not  to  be  softened  in  the 
distance  of  time,  I write  rather  for  the  instruc- 
tion than  the  entertainment  of  my  readers  this 
story  of  “ A Hidden  Sin.” 


THE  END. 


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PRICE 


1.  Pelham.  By  Bulwer $0  75 

2.  The  Disowned.  By  Bulwer 75 

3.  Devereux.  By  Bulwer 50 

4.  Paul  Clifford.  By  Bulwer 50 

5.  Eugene  Aram.  By  Bulwer *. 50 

6.  The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii.  By  Bulwer 50 

7.  The  Czarina.  By  Mrs.  Hofland 50 

8.  Rienzi.  By  Bulwer 75 

9.  Self-Devotion.  By  Miss  Campbell 50 

10.  The  Nabob  at  Home 50 

11.  Ernest  Maltravers.  By  Bulwer 50 

12.  Alice ; or,  The  Mysteries.  By  Bulwer 50 

13.  The  Last  of  the  Barons.  By  Bulwer 1 00 

14.  Forest  Days.  By  James 50 

15.  Ada&.Brown,  the  Merchant.  By  H.  Smith  ...  50 

16.  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine.  By  Bulwer 25 

17.  The  Home.  By  Miss  Bremer 50 

18.  The  Lost  Ship.  By  Captain  Neale 75 

19.  The  False  Heir.  By  James 50 

20.  The  Neighbors.  By  Miss  Bremer 50 

21.  ^iina.  By  Miss  Bremer 50 

22.  The  President’s  Daughters.  By  Miss  Bremer. . 25 

23.  The  Banker’s  Wife.  By  Mrs.  Gore 50 

24.  The  Birthright.  By  Mrs.  Gore 25 

25.  New  Sketches  of  Every-day  Life.  By  Miss  Bremer  50 

26.  Arabella  Stuart.  By  James 50 

27.  The  Grumbler.  By  Miss  Pickering 50 

28.  The  Unloved  One.  By  Mrs.  Hofland 50 

29.  Jack  of  the  Mill.  By  William  Howitt 25 

30.  The  Heretic.  By  La  jetchnikoff 50 

31.  The  Jew.  By  Spindler 75 

32.  Arthur.  By  Sue 75 

33.  Chatsworth.  By  Ward 50 

34.  The  Prairie  Bird.  By  C.  A.  Murray 1 00 

35.  Amy  Herbert.  By  Miss  Sewell 50 

36.  Rose  d’Albret.  By  James 50 

37.  The  Triumphs  of  Time.  By  Mrs.  Marsh 75 

38.  The  H Family.  By  Miss  Bremer 50 

39.  The  Grandfather.  By  Miss  Pickering 50 

40.  Arrah  Neil.  By  James 50 

41.  The  Jilt 50 

42.  Tales  from  the  German 50 

43.  Arthur  Arundel.  By  H.  Smith 50 

44.  Agincourt.  By  James 50 

45.  The  Regent’s  Daughter 50 

46.  The  Maid  of  Honor 50 

47.  Safia.  By  De  Beauvoir 50 

48.  Look  to  the  End.  By  Mils.  Ellis 50 

49.  The  Improvisatore.  By  Andersen 50 

50.  The  Gambler’s  Wife.  By  Mrs.  Grey 50 

51.  Veronica.  By  Zschokke 50 

52.  Zoe.  By  Miss  Jewsbury 50 

53.  Wyoming.. 50 

54.  De  Rohan.  By  Sue 50 

55.  Self.  By  the  Author  of  “ Cecil” 75 

56.  The  Smuggler.  By  James 75 

57.  The  Breach  of  Promise 50 

58.  Parsonage  of  Mora.  By  Miss  Bremer 25 

59.  A Chance  Medley.  By  T.  C.  Grattan 50 

60.  The  White  Slave 1 00 

61.  The  Bosom  Friend.  By  Mrs.  Grey 50 

62.  Amaury.  By  Dumas *4  50 

63.  The  Author’s  Daughter.  By  Mary  Howitt 25 

64.  Only  a Fiddler,  &c.  By  ^.ndersen 50  j 


65.  The  Wliiteboy.  By  Mrs.  Hall $0  50 

66.  The  Foster-Brother.  Edited  by  Leigh  Hunt. . 50 

67.  Love  and  Mesmerism.  By  II.  Smith 75 

68.  Ascanio.  By  Dumas 75 

69.  Lady  of  Milan.  Edited  by  Mrs.  Thomson 75 

70.  The  Citizen  of  Prague 1 00 

71.  The  Royal  Favorite.  By  Mrs.  Gore 50 

72.  The  Queen  of  Denmark.  By  Mrs.,  Gore 50 

73.  The  Elves,  &c.  By  Tieck 50 

74.  75.  The  Stepmother.  By  James 1 25 

76.  Jessie's  Flirtations 25 

77.  Chevalier  d’Harmental.  By  Dumas 50 

78.  £eers  and  Parvenus.  By  Mrs.  Gore 50 

79.  The  Commander  of  Malta.  By  Sue 50 

80.  The  Female  Minister 50 

81.  Emilia  Wyndham.  By  Mrs.  Marsh 75 

. 82.  The  Bush-Ranger.  By  Charles  Rowcroft 50 

83.  The  Chronicles  of  Clovernook 25 

84.  Genevieve.  By  Lamartine 25 

85.  Livonian  Tales 25 

86.  Lettice  Arnold.  By  Mrs.  Marsh 25 

87.  Father  Darcy.  By  Mrs.  Marsh 75 

88.  Leontine.  By  Mrs.  Maberly 50 

89.  Heidelberg.  By  James 50 

90.  Lucretia.  By  Bulwer 75 

91.  Beauchamp.  By  James 75 

92.  94.  Fortescue.  By  Knowles 1 00 

93.  Daniel  Dennison,  &c.  By  Mrs.  Hofland 50 

95.  Cinq-Mars.  By  De  Vigny 50 

96.  Woman’s  Trials.  By  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall 75 

97.  The  Castle  of  Ehrenstein.  By  James 50 

98.  Marriage.  By  Miss  S.  Ferrier 50 

99.  Roland  Cashel.  By  Lever 1 25 

100.  The  Martins  of  Cro’  Martin.  By  Lever 1 25 

101.  Russell.  By  James 50 

102.  A Simple  Story.  By  Mrs.  Inchbald 50 

103.  Norman’s  Bridge.  By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

104.  Alamance 50 

105.  Margaret  Graham.  By  James 25 

106.  The  Wayside  Cross.  By  E.  H.  Milman 25 

107.  The  Convict.  By  James 50 

10S.  Midsummer  Eve.  By  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall 50 

109.  Jane  Eyre.  By  Currer  Bell 75 

110.  The  Last  of  the  Fairies.  By  James 25 

111.  Sir  Theodore  Broughton.  By  James 50 

112.  Self-Control.  By  Mary  Brunton 75 

113.  114.  Harold.  By  Bulwer 1 00 

115.  Brothers  and  Sisters.  By  Mis3  Bremer 50 

116.  Gowrie.  By  James 50 

117.  A Whim  and  its  Consequences.  By  James ...  50 

118.  Three  Sisters  and  Three  Fortunes.  By  G.  H. 

Lewes 75 

119.  The  Discipline  of  Life 50 

120.  Thirty  Years  Since.  By  James 75 

121.  Mary  Barton.  By  Mrs.  Gaskell 50 

122.  The  Great  Hoggarty  Diamond.  By  Thackeray  25 

123.  The  Forgery.  By  James 50 

124.  The  Midnight  Sun.  By  Miss  Bremer 25 

125.  126:  The  Caxtons.  By  Bulwer 75 

127.  Mordaunt  Hall.  By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

128.  My  Uncle  the  Curate 50 

129.  The  Woodman.  By  James 75 

130.  The  Green  Hand.  A “ Short  Yarn” ' 75 

131.  Sidonia  the  Sorceress.  By  Meinhold 1 00 


2 


Harper's  Library  of  Select  Novels . 


PRICE 


132.  Shirley.  ByCurrerBell $100 

133.  The  Ogilvies.  By  Miss  Mulock 50 

134.  Constance  Lyndsay.  By  G.  C.  H 50 

135.  Sir  Edward  Graham.  By  Miss  Sinc  lair 1 00 

136.  Hands  not  Hearts.  By  Miss  Wilkinson 50 

13T.  The  Wilmingtons.  By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

138.  Ned  Allen.  By  D.  Hannay 50 

139.  Night  and  Morning.  By  Bulwer 75 

140.  The  Maid  of  Orleans 75 

141.  Antonina.  By  Wilkie  Collins 50 

142.  Zanoni.  By  Bulwer 50 

143.  Reginald  Hastings.  By  Warburton 50 

144.  Pride  and  Irresolution 50 

145.  The  Old  Oak  Chest.  By  James 50 

146.  Julia  Howard.  By  Mrs.  Martin  Bell 50 

147.  Adelaide  Lindsay.  Edited  by  Mrs.  Marsh. ...  50 

14S.  Petticoat  Government.  By  Mrs.  Trollope 50 

149.  The  Luttrells.  By  F.  Williams 50 

150.  Singleton  Fontenoy,  R.  N.  By  Hannay 50 

151.  Olive.  By  Miss  Mulock 50 

152.  Henry  Smeaton.  By  James 50 

153.  Time,  the  Avenger.  By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

154.  The  Commissioner.  By  James 1 00 

155.  The  Wife’s  Sister.  By  Mrs.  Hubback 50 

156.  The  Gold  Worshipers 50 

157.  The  Daughter  of  Night.  By  Fullom * 50 

15S.  Stuart  of  Dunleath.  By  Hon.  Caroline  Norton  50 

159.  Arthur  Conway.  By  Captain  E.  H.  Milman. . 50 

160.  The  Fate.  By  James 50 

161.  The  Lady  and  the  Priest.  By  Mrs.  Maberly. . 50 

162.  Aims  and  Obstacles.  By  James 50 

163.  The  Tutor’s  Ward 50 

164.  Florence  Saclcville.  By  Mrs.  Burbury 75 

165.  Ravenscliffe.  By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

166.  Maurice  Tiernay.  By  Lever 1 00 

167.  The  Head  of  the  Family.  By  Miss  Mulock. . . 75 

16S.  Darien.  By  Warburton. 50 

169.  Falkenburg  75 

170.  The  Daltons.  By  Lever 1 50 

171.  Ivar;  or,  The  Skjuts-Boy.  By  Miss  Carlen  . . 50 

172.  Pequinillo.  By  James 50 

173.  Anna  Hammer.  By  Temmer 50 

174.  A Life  of  Vicissitudes.  By  James 50 

175.  Henry  Esmond.  By  Thackeray 75 

176.  177.  My  Novel.  By  Bulwer 1 50 

178.  Katie  Stewart 50 

179.  Castle  Avon.  By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

ISO.  Agnes  Sorel.  By  James 50 

181.  Agatha’s  Husband.  By  Miss  Mulock 50 

1S2.  Yillette.  By  Currer  Bell 75 

183.  Lover’s  Stratagem.  By  Miss  Carlen 50 

184.  Clouded  Happiness.  By  Countess  D’Orsay. . . 50 

155.  Charles  Auchester.  A Memorial 75 

156.  Lady  Lee’s  Widowhood 50 

187.  The  Dodd  Family  Abroad.  By  Lever 1 25 

185.  Sir  Jasper  Carew.  By  Lever 75 

189.  Quiet  Heart 25 

190.  Aubrey.  By  Mrs.  Marsh 75 

191.  Ticonderoga.  By  James 50 

192.  Hard  Times.  By  Dickens 50 

193.  The  Young  Husband.  By  Mrs.  Grey : . . . 50 

194.  The  Mother’s  Recompense.  By  Grace  Aguilar.  75 

195.  Avillion,  and  other  Tales.  By  Miss  Mulock. . . 1 25 

196.  North  and  South.  By  Mrs.  Gaskell 50 

197.  Country  Neighborhood.  By  Miss  Dupuy 50 

198.  Constance  Herbert.  By  Miss  Jewsbury 50 

199.  The  Heiress  of  Haughton.  By  Mrs.  Marsh. . . 50 

200.  The  Old  Dominion.  By  James 50 

201.  John  Halifax.  By  Miss  Mulock 75 

202.  Evelyn  Marston.  By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

203.  Fortunes  of  Glencore.  By  Lever 50 

204.  Leonora  d’Orco.  By  James 50 

205.  Nothing  New.  By  Miss  Mulock 50 

206.  The  Rose  of  Ashurst.  By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

207.  The  Athelings.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant 75 

208.  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life 75/ 

209.  My  Lady  Ludlow.  By  Mrs.  Gaskell 25 


PRICE 


210,211.  Gerald  Fitzgerald.  By  Lever $0  50 

212.  A Life  for  a Life.  By  Miss  Mulock 50 

213.  Sword  and  Gown.  By  the  Author  of  “ Guy 

Livingstone” 25 

214.  Misrepresentation.  By  Anna  H.  Drury 1 00 

215.  The  Mill  on  the  Floss.  By  the  Author  of 

“Adam  Bede” 75 

216.  One  of  Them.  By  Lever 75 

217.  A Day’s  Ride.  By  LeVer 50 

218.  Notice  to  Quit.  By  Wills 50 

219.  A Strange  Story.  By  Bulwer 1 00 

220.  The  Struggles  of  Brown,  J ones,  and  Robinson. 

By  Trollope 50 

221.  Abel  Drake’s  Wife.  By  John  Saunders 75 

222.  Olive  Blake’s  Good  Work.  By  John  Cordy 

Jeaffreson 75 

223.  The  Professor's  Lady 25 

224.  Mistress  and  Maid.  A Household  Story.  By 

Miss  Mulock 50 

225.  Aurora  Floyd.  By  M.  E.  Braddon 75 

226.  Barrington.  By  Lever 75 

227.  Sylvia’s  Lovers.  By  Mrs.  Gaskell 75 

228.  A First  Friendship 50 

229.  A Dark  Night’s  Work.  By-Mrs.  Gaskell 50 

230.  Mrs.  Lirriper’s  Lodgings. 25 

231.  St.  Olave’s *....., 75 

232.  A Point  of  Honor #. . . 50 

233.  Live  it  Down.  By  Jeaffreson 1 00 

234.  Martin  Pole.  By  Saunders 50 

235.  Mary  Lyndsay.  By  Lady  Emily  Ponsonby. . . 50 

236.  Eleanor’s  Victory.  By  M.  E.  Braddon 75 

237.  Rachel  Ray.  By  Trollope 50 

238.  John  Marchmont’s  Legacy.  By  M.  E.  Brad- 

don  ‘ 75 

239.  Annis  Warleigli's  Fortunes.  By  Holme  Lee..  75 

240.  The  Wife’s  Evidence.  By  Wills 50 

241.  Barbara’s  History.  By  Amelia  B.  Edwards. . . 75 

242.  Cousin  Phillis 25 

243.  What  will  he  do  with  It  ? By  Bulwer 1 50 

244.  The  Ladder  of  Life.  By  Amelia  B.  Edwards. . 50 

245.  Denis  Duval.  By  Thackeray 50 

246.  Maurice  Dering.  By  the  Author  of  “ Guy  Liv- 

ingstone”   v 50 

247.  Margaret  Dentil’s  History.  Annotated  by  her 

Husband 75 

248.  Quite  Alone.  By  George  Augustus  Sala 75 

249.  Mattie:  a Stray 75 

250.  My  Brother’s  Wife.  By  Amelia  B.  Edwards. . 50 

251*  Uncle  Silas.  By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu 75 

253.  Miss  Mackenzie.  By  Anthony  Trollope 50 

254.  On  Guard.  By  Annie  Thomas 50 

255.  Theo  Leigh.  By  Annie  Thomas 50 

256.  Denis  Donne.  By  Annie  Thomas 50 

257.  Belial 50 

258.  Carry’s  Confession.  By  the  Author  of  “ Mat- 

tie  : a Stray” 75 

259.  Miss  Carew.  By  Amelia  B.  Edwards 50 

260.  Hand  and  Glove.  By  Amelia  B.  Edwards 50 

261.  Guy  Deverell.  By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu 50 

262.  Half  a Million  of  Money.  By  Ajnelia  B.  Ed- 

wards   75 

263.  The  Belton  Estate.  By  Anthony  Trollope 50 

204.  Agnes.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant i 75 

265.  Walter  Goring.  By  Annie  Thomas. .. : 75 

266.  Maxwell  Drewitt.  By  F.  G.  Trafford 75 

267.  The  Toilers  of  the  Sea.  By  Victor  Hugo 73 

268.  Miss  Marjoribanks.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant 75 

269.  The  True  History  of  a Little  Ragamuffin 50 

270.  Gilbert  Rugge.  By  the  Author  of  “A  First  i 

Friendship” 1T)0 

271.  SansMerci;  or,  Kestrels  and  Falcons.  By  the 

Author  of  “ Guy  Livingstone” 50 

272/  Phemie  Keller.  By  F.  G.  Trafford 50 

273jTLand  at  Last.  By  Edmund  Yates 50 

274.  Felix  Holt,  the  Radical.  By  George  Eliot 75 

275.  Bound  to  the  Wheel.  By  John  Saunders 

276.  All  in  the  Dark.  By  J.  S.  Le  Fanu. ... 7 


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